THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


LIRA 


AND  OTHER  POEMS 


BY  ALICE  CAREY, 

AUTHOR   OF 

'CLOVERNOOK,  OR  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  OUR  NEIGHBORHOOD  IN  THE  WEST," 

AND   ONE  OF  THE   AUTHORS  OF 

"  POEMS  BY  ALICE  AND  PHCEBE  CAREY." 


REDFIELD, 

CLINTON   HALL,   NEW  YORK. 
1852. 


ENTERED,  according  to  Act  of  Congress, 
In  the  Year  One  Thousand  Eight  Hundred  and  Fifty-two,  by 

J.   S.   EEDFIELD, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United 
States,  for  the  Southern  District  of  New  York. 


L98 


CONTENTS, 


LYRA  :  A  LAMENT  .  , 

WINTER     .  .  . 

WRITTEN  IN  ILLNESS      .  • 

HYMN  TO  THE  NIGHT  . 

THE  POET        .  .  , 

LILY  LEE  .  . 

DEATH  SONG    .  .  • 

WOOD  NYMPHS        .  . 

THE  DAUGHTER  .  < 

DESPAIR     .  .  . 

YESTERNIGHT    .  .          •     , 

To  THE  SPIRIT  OF  SONG        . 
PROPHECY         .  .  , 

PERVERSITY  .  . 

ANNUARIES       .  .  , 

ANNIE  CLAYYILLE   .  • 

MILNA  GREY    .  .  ( 

THE  MURDERESS       .  • 

THE  CONVICT    .  .  , 

OF  ONE  ASLEEP      .  . 

JESSIE  CARROLL  . 

DISSATISFIED  .  . 

AGATHA  TO  HAROLD       .  < 

THE  SPIRIT  HAUNTED  . 

WURTHA  .  .  , 

MADELA    .  ,"  . 

THE  SHEPHERDESS 
THE  KECLAIMING  OF  THE  ANGEL 
YOUNG  LOVE    . 
THE  BETROTHED      . 
GOING  TO  SLEEP 


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626043 


IV  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

OF  ONE  DYING        .....  103 

THE  GOOD  ANGEL           .....  105 

OCTOBEB        .                          .               .              .               .  107 

A  KETROSPECT                 .....  109 

MY  FRIEND  AND  I                  ....  Ill 

A  DREAM  UNTOLD          .....  113 

ULALIE      .               .          v  ;f  '     ,"  y  ?'          .               .  116 

PARTING  SONG              ' .     •     -  ••;•  !        '  .              .               .  117 

THE  BROKEN  HOUSEHOLD       .               .               .     •          .  119 

FlRE-PlCTURES  ...  .  .  .  121 

To  THE  WINDS         .....  123 

To  THE  SPIRIT  or  GLADNESS         .  .  .  .125 

A  CHRISTMAS  STOEY  .  .  .  -.  127 

THISBE  .  .  .  .  .  .129 

OUT  BY  THE  WATERS  .  .  .  .  181 

LOVE'S  CHAPEL  -  .  .  .  .  .        138 

THE  TRYST  .....  135 

THE  BRIDAL  OF  Wo       .  .  .  .  .137 

FALLEN  GENIUS        .....  139 

DYING  SONG    ......        141 

DYING       .  .  ..  .  .  .  143 

MAY  VERSES    ......        145 

PARTING  WITH  A  POET          .  .  .  .  147 

HARRIET  .  .  .  .  .    »    r      •_••  .        149 

To  THE  HOPEFUL     .....  151 

RESPITE  .  .  .  .  .  .        153 

THE  DYING  MOTHEK  .  .  .  .  155 

THE  LAST  SON&  .  .  .  .j-   :  .        157 

FALMOUTH  HALL      ....  •.  159 

GLENLY  MOOR  .....        161 

KOSEMARY  HILL       .  .  .  .  .  163 

ADELIED  ......        166 

MULBERRY  HILL      .  .  .  .  .  167 

SONG  .  ^  .  .  ...  .169 

LIVE  AND  HELP  LIVE  ....  171 

DOOMED  ......        178 

WEARINESS  .  .  .  .  .  174 

To  ELMTNA      .  .  .  .  .  .175 

HOMESICK  ......  176 

KINDNESS          .  .  .  .    ,  .  .177 

MY  MOTHER    .  .  .  178 


POEMS  BY  ALICE  CARET. 


LYEA:  A  LAMENT, 

I 

MAIDENS,  whose  tresses  shine, 

Crowned  with  daffodil  and  eglantine, 

Or,  from  their  stringed  buds  of  brier  roses, 

Bright  as  the  vermeil  closes 

Of  April  twilights  after  sobbing 'rains, 

Fall  down  in  rippled  skeins 

And  golden  tangles  low 

About  your  bosoms,  dainty  as  new  snow ; 

While  the  warm  shadows  blow  in  softest  gales 

Fair  hawthorn  flowers  and  cherry  blossoms  white 
Against  your  kirtles,  like  the  froth  from  pails 

O'er  brimmed  with  milk  at  night, 
When  lowing  heifers  bury  their  sleek  flanks 
In  winrows  of  sweet  hay  or  clover  banks — 
Come  near  and  hear,  I  pray, 
My  plained  roundelay. 


6  LYRA. 

Where  creeping  vines  o'errun  the  sunny  leas, 
Sadly,  sweet  souls,  I  watch  your  shining  bands, 
Filling  with  stained  hands 

Your  leafy  cups  with  lush  red  strawberries ; 
Or  deep  in  murmurous  glooms, 
In  yellow  mosses  full  of  starry  blooms, 
Sunken  at  ease — each  busied  as  she  likes, 

Or  stripping  from  the  grass  the  beaded  dews, 
Or  picking  jagged  leaves  from  the  slim  spikes 

Of  tender  pinks — with  warbled  interfuse 
Of  poesy  divine, 

That  haply  long  ago 

Some  wretched  borderer  of  the  realm  of  wo 
Wrought  to  a  dulcet  line ; — 
If  in  your  lovely  years 
There  be  a  sorrow  that  may  touch  with  tears 
The  eyelids  piteously,  they  must  be  shed 
FOR  LYRA,  DEAD. 

The  mantle  of  the  May 

Was  blown  almost  within  the  summer's  reach, 
And  all  the  orchard  trees, 

Apple,  and  pear,  and  peach, 
Were  full  of  yellow  bees, 

Flown  from  their  hives  away. 
The  callow  dove  upon  the  dusty  beam 

Fluttered  its  little  wings  in  streaks  of  light, 

And  the  gray  swallow  twittered  full  in  sight ; 
Harmless  the  unyoked  team 

Browsed  from  the  budding  elms,  and  thrilling  lays 

Made  musical  prophecies  of  brighter  days  j 


LYRA. 

And  all  went  jocundly.    I  could  but  say, 

Ah !  well-a-day  ! — 

What  time  spring  thaws  the  wold, 

And  in  the  dead  leaves  come  up  sprouts  of  gold, 

And  green  and  ribby  blue,  that  after  hours 

Encrown  with  flowers ; 

Heavily  lies  my  heart 

From  all  delights  apart, 

Even  as  an  echo  hungry  for  the  wind, 

When  fail  the  silver-kissing  waves  to  unbind 

The  music  bedded  in  the  drowsy  strings 

Of  the  sea's  golden  shells — 
That,  sometimes,  with  their  honeyed  murmurings 

Fill  all  its  underswells  ; — 
For  o'er  the  sunshine  fell  a  shadow  wide 
When  Lyra  died. 

When  sober  Autumn,  with  his  mist-bound  brows, 

Sits  drearily  beneath  the  fading  boughs, 

And  the  rain,  chilly  cold, 

Wrings  from  his  beard  of  gold, 

And  as  some  comfort  for  his  lonesome  hours, 

Hides  in  his  bosom  stalks  of  withered  flowers, 

I  think  about  what  leaves  are  drooping  round 

A  smoothly  shapen  mound; 

And  if  the  wild  wind  cries 

Where  Lyra  lies, 

Sweet  shepherds  softly  blow 

Ditties  roost  sad  and  low — 

Piping  on  hollow  reeds  to  your  pent  sheep — 

Calm  be  my  Lyra's  sleep, 


8  LYRA. 

Unvexed  with  dream  of  the  rough  briers  that  pull 

From  his  strayed  lambs  the  wool ! 

Oh,  star,  that  tremblest  dim 

Upon  the  welkin's  rim, 

Send  with  thy  milky  shadows  from  above 

Tidings  about  my  love ; 

If  that  some  envious  wave 

Made  his  untimely  grave, 

Or  if,  so  softening  half  my  wild  regrets, 

Some  coverlid  of  bluest  violets 

Was  softly  put  aside, 

What  time  he  died ! 

Nay,  come  not,  piteous  maids, 

Out  of  the  murmurous  shades ; 

But  keep  your  tresses  crowned  as  you  may 

With  eglantine  and  daffodillies  gay, 

And  with  the  dews  of  myrtles  wash  your  cheeks, 

When  flamy  streaks, 

Uprunning  the  gray  orient,  tell  of  morn — 

While  I,  forlorn, 

Pour  all  my  heart  in  tears  and  plaints,  instead, 

FOR  LYRA,  DEAD. 


WINTER. 

Now  sits  the  twilight  palaced  in  the  snow, 

Hugging  away  beneath  a  fleece  of  gold 
Her  statue  beauties,  dumb  and  icy  cold, 

And  fixing  her  blue  steadfast  eyes  below, 
Where,  in  a  bed  of  chilly  waves  afar, 

With  dismal  shadows  o'er  her  sweet  face  blown, 
Tended  to  death  by  eve's  delicious  star, 

Lies  the  lost  Day  alone. 

Where  late,  with  red  mists  bound  about  his  brows, 

Went  the  swart  Autumn,  wading  to  the  knees 
Through  drifts  of  dead  leaves,  shaken  from  the  boughs 

Of  the  old  forest  trees, 
The  gusts  upon  their  baleful  errands  run 

O'er  the  bright  ruin,  fading  from  our  eyes — 
And  over  all,  like  clouds  about  the  sun, 

A  shadow  lies. 

For,  fallen  asleep  upon  a  dreary  world, 
Slant  to  the  light,  one  late  October  morn, 

From  some  rough  cavern  blew  a  tempest  cold, 
And  tearing  off  his  garland  of  ripe  corn, 


10  WINTER. 

Twisted  with  blue  grapes,  sweet  with  luscious  wine, 
And  Ceres'  drowsy  flowers,  so  dully  red, 

Deep  in  his  cavern  leafy  and  divine, 
Buried  him  with  his  dead. 

Then,  with  his  black  beard  glistening  in  the  frost, 

Under  the  icy  arches  of  the  north, 
And  o'er  the  still  graves  of  the  seasons  lost, 

Blustered  the  Winter  forth — 
Spring,  with  your  crown  of  roses  budding  new, 

Thought-nursing  and  most  melancholy  Fall, 
Summer,  with  bloomy  meadows  wet  with  dew, 

Blighting  your  beauties  all. 

Oh  heart,  your  spring-time  dream  will  idle  prove, 

Your  summer  but  forerun  your  autumn's  death, 
The  flowery  arches  in  the  home  of  love 

Fall,  crumbling,  at  a  breath ; 
And,  sick  at  last  with  that  great  sorrow's  shock, 

As  some  poor  prisoner,  pressing  to  the  bars 
His  forehead,  calls  on  Mercy  to  unlock 

The  chambers  of  the  stars — 
You,  turning  off  from  life's  first  mocking  glow 

Leaning,  it  may  be,  still  on  broken  faith, 
Will  down  the  vale  of  Autumn  gladly  go 

To  the  chill  winter,  Death. 

Hark !  from  the  empty  bosom  of  the  grove 
I  hear  a  sob,  as  one  forlorn  might  pine — 
The  white-limbed  beauty  of  a  god  is  thine, 


WINTER.  11 

King  of  the  seasons !  and  the  night  that  hoods 

Thy  brow  majestic,  brightest  stars  enweave — 

Thou  surely  canst  not  grieve ; 
But  only  far  away 

Makest  stormy  prophecies ;  well,  lift  them  higher, 
Till  morning  on  the  forehead  of  the  day 

Presses  a  seal  of  fire. 
Dearer  to  me  the  scene 

Of  nature  shrinking  from  thy  rough  embrace, 
Than  Summer,  with  her  rustling  robe  of  green, 

Cool  blowing  in  my  face. 

The  moon  is  up — how  still  the  yellow  beams 

That  slantwise  lie  upon  the  stirless  air, 
Sprinkled  with  frost,  like  pearl-entangled  hair, 

O'er  beauty's  cheeks  that  streams! 
How  the  red  light  of  Mars  their  pallor  mocks, 

And  the  wild  legend  from  the  old  time  wins, 
Of  sweet  waves  kissing  all  the  drowning  locks 

Pf  Ilia's  lovely  twins ! 

Come,  Poesy,  and  with  thy  shadowy  hands 

Cover  me  softly,  singing  all  the  night — 
In  thy  dear  presence  find  I  best  delight ; 

Even  the  saint  that  stands 
Tending  the  gate  of  heaven,  involved  in  beams 

Of  rarest  glory,  to  my  mortal  eyes 
Pales  from  the  blest  insanity  of  dreams 

That  round  thee  lies. 


12  WINTER. 

Unto  the  dusky  borders  of  the  grove 

Where  gray-haired  Saturn,  silent  as  a  stone, 

Sat  in  his  grief  alone, 
Or,  where  young  Venus,  searching  for  her  love, 

Walked  through  the  clouds,  I  pray, 

Bear  me  to-night  away. 

Or  wade  with  me  through  snows 

Drifted  in  loose  fantastic  curves  aside, 

From  humble  doors  where  Love  and  Faith  abide, 
And  no  rough  winter  blows, 

Chilling  the  beauty  of  affections  fair, 

Cabined  securely  there, — 
Where  round  their  fingers  winding  the  white  slips 

That  crown  his  forehead,  on  the  grandsire's  knees, 
Sit  merry  children,  teasing  about  ships 

Lost  in  the  perilous  seas ; 
Or  listening  with  a  troublous  joy,  yet  deep, 

To  stories  about  battles,  or  of  storms, 
Till  weary  grown,  and  drowsing  into  sleep, 

Slide  they  from  out  his  arms. 

Where,  by  the  log-heap  fire, 

As  the  pane  rattles  and  the  cricket  sings, 
I  with  the  gray -haired  sire 

May  talk  of  vanished  summer-times  and  springs, 
And  harmlessly  and  cheerfully  beguile 

The  long,  long  hours — 
The  happier  for  the  snows  that  drift  the  while 

About  the  flowers. 


WINTER.  13 

Winter,  wilt  keep  the  love  I  offer  thee? 

No  mesh  of  flowers  is  bound  about  my  brow ; 
From  life's  fair  summer  I  am  hastening  now. 

And  as  I  sink  my  knee, 
Dimpling  the  beauty  of  thy  bed  of  snow — 

Dowerless,  I  can  but  say — 

Oh,  cast  me  not  away  ! 


WRITTEN  IN  ILLNESS. 

Now  in  the  field  of  sunset,  Twilight  gray, 

Sad  for  the  dying  day, 

With  wisps  of  shadows  binds  the  sheaves  of  gold, 

And  Night  comes  shepherding  his  starry  fold 

Along  the  fringed  bottom  of  the  sky. 

Alas,  that  I 

Sunken  among  life's  faded  ruins  lie — 

My  senses  from  their  natural  uses  bound ! 

What  thing  is  likest  to  my  wretched  plight1? — 
A  barley  grain  cast  into  stony  ground, 

That  may  not  quicken  up  into  the  light. 

Erewhile  I  dreamed  about  the  hills  of  home 
Whereon  I  used  to  roam  ; 

Of  silver-leaved  larch, 

And  willow,  hung  with  tassels,  when  like  bells 
Tinkle  the  thawing  runnel's  brimming  swells ; 

And  softly  filling  in  the  front  of  March 
The  new  moon  lies, 

Watching  for  harebells,  and  the  buds  that  ease 
Hearts  lovelorn,  and  the  spotted  adder's  tongue, 
Dead  heaped  leaves  among — 


WRITTEN     IN     ILLNESS.  15 

The  verdurous  season's  cloud  of  witnesses ; 

Of  how  the  daisy  shines 

White,  i'  the  knotty  and  close-nibbled  grass ; 

Of  thickets  full  of  prickly  eglantines, 

And  the  slim  spice-wood  and  red  sassafras, 

Stealing  between  whose  boughs  the  twinkling  heats 

Suck  up  the  exhaled  sweets 
From  dew-embalmed  beds  of  primroses, 
That  all  unpressed  lie, 
Save  of  enamored  airs,  right  daintily, 

And  golden-ringed  bees; 
Of  atmospheres  of  hymns, 

When  wings  go  beating  up  the  blue  sublime 
From  hedgerows  sweet  with  vermeil-sprouting  limbs, 

In  April's  showery  time, 

When  lilacs  come,  and  straggling  flag-flowers,  bright, 
As  any  summer  light 

Ere  yet  the  plowman's  steers 
Browse  through  the  meadows  from  the  traces  free, 
Or  steel-blue  swallows  twitter  merrily, 
With  slant  wings  shaving  close  the  level  ground, 
Where  with  his  new-washed  ewes  thick  huddled  round, 

The  careful  herdsman  plies  the  busy  shears. 

But  this  fond  seeming  now  no  longer  seems — 
Aching  and  drowsy  pains  keep  down  my  dreams ; 

Even  as  a  dreary  wind 

Within  some  hollow,  black  with  poison  flowers, 

Swoons  into  silence,  dies  the  hope  that  lined 
My  lowly  chamber  with  illumined  wings, 


16  WRITTEN     IX     ILLNESS. 

In  life's  enchanted  hours, 

When,  tender  oxlips  mixed  through  yellow  strings 
Of  mulleinstars,  with  myrtles  interfused, 
Pulled  out  of  pastures  green,  I  gaily  used 
To  braid  up  with  my  hair.     Ah,  well-a-day  ! 
Haply  the  blue  eyes  of  another  May 
Open  from  rosy  lids ;  I  shall  not  see 
For  the  white  shroud-folds.     If  it  thus  must  be, 
O  Father,  Son,  and  Spirit !  Holy  Three  ! 
As  death  is  closing  round  me  into  night, 
Comfort  the  darkness  with  religious  light ! 


HYMN  TO  THE  NIGHT. 

MIDNIGHT,  beneath  your  sky, 

Where  streaks  of  soft  blue  lie 

Between  the  starry  ranks 

Like  rivers  with  white  lilies  on  their  banks, 

Frown  not  that  I  am  come, 
A  little  while  to  stay 
From  the  broad  light  of  day. 

My  passion  shall  be  dumb, 
Nor  vex  with  faintest  moan 
For  my  life's  summer  flown 
The  drowsy  stillness  hanging  on  the  air. 
Therefore,  with  black  despair 
Let  me  enfold  my  brow — 
I  come  to  gather  the  gray  ashes  now 
That  in  the  long  gone  hours 
Were  blushing  flowers. 
Give  me  some  gentle  comfort,  gentle  Night, 
For  their  untimely  blight, 
Feeding  my  soul  with  the  delicious  sounds 
Of  waters  washing  over  hollow  grounds 
Through  beds  of  hyacinths,  and  rushes  green 
With  yellow  ferns  and  broad-leaved  flags  between; 


18  HYMN     TO     THE     NIGHT. 

Where  the  south  winds  do  sleep, 
Forgetting  their  white  cradles  in  the  deep. 
No  harsh  complaint,  nor   rude  unmannered  wo 
Shall  jar  discordant  in  the  dulcet  flow 
Of  music  raining  from  the  milky  wings 

Of  the  wild,  plaining  dove, 
The  while  I  touch  my  lyre's  late  shattered  strings — 

Singing  about  my  love. 

The  future  is  all  dim, 
No  more  my  locks  I  trim 

With  myrtles  or  gay  pansies  as  I  used, 
Or  with  slim  jesmines  string  with  pretty  flowers 
As  in  the  blessed  hours 

Ere  yet  I  sadly  mused, 
Or  covered  up  from  my  lamenting  eyes 
The  too  sweet  skies, 
With  withered  holly  or  the  bitter  rue, 
As  now,  alas,  I  do. 

Since  he  for  whose  sweet  sake  the  world  was  fair 
Heeds  not  my  tearful  prayer, 
Ah  me  !  my  sweetest  song 
Must  do  his  beauty  wrong 
To  whose  white  hands  I  give  my  heavy  heart, 
Saying,  Lovely  as  thou  art, 
Be  kindly  piteous  of  my  hapless  wo ! — 
Full  well  I  know 

How  changed  I  am  since  all  my  young  heart-beats 
Were  full  of  joyance,  as  of  pastoral  sweets 
The  long  bright  summer  times 
When  Love  first  taught  me  rhymes. 


HYMN     TO     THE     NIGHT.  19 

Yet,  dear  one,  in  thy  smile 

The  light  they  knew  erewhile 

My  eyes  would  gather  back,  and  in  my  cheek, 

The  flush  of  spring  would  break. 

Come  thou,  about  whose  visionary  bier 

I  strew  in  softest  fear 

Pale  flowers  of  mandrakes  in  my  nightly  dreams, 

That  fly  when  morning  streams 

Slant  through  my  casement  and  fades  off  again, 

Soothing  no  jot  my  pain — 

Come  back  and  stay  with  me 

And  we  will  lovers  be ! 

In  the  brown  shadows  of  the  autumn  trees, 

Lingering  behind  the  lees 

Till  the  rough  winds  do  blow 

And  blustery  clouds  are  full  of  chilly  snow, 

We'll  sing  old  songs,  and  with  love  ditties  gay 

Beguile  the  hours  away. 

And  I  with  ivy  buds  thy  locks  will  crown, 
And  when  in  all  their  lovely  lengths  of  gold 
Straightened  with  moisture  cold 

Sorrowfully  drop  they  down, 
My  hands  shall  press  them  dry,  the  while  I  keep 
Soft  watches  for  thy  sleep, 
Weaving  some  roundelay, 
Of  that  pale  huntress,  haply,  whose  blue  way 

Along  the  heavens  was  lost, 
Finding  the  low  earth  sweeter  than  the  skies — 
Kissing  the  love-lit  eyes 

Of  the  fair  boy  Endymion,  as  he  crossed 


20  HYMN     TO     THE     NIGHT. 

The  leafy  dimness  of  the  woods  alone, 

In  the  old  myth-time  flown ; 

Haply  of  Proteus,  all  his  dripping  flocks 

Along  the  wild  sea-rocks 

Driving  to  pastures  in  fresh  sprouting  meads, 

His  sad  brows  crowned  with  green  murmurous  reeds 

For  love  of  Leonora — she  for  whom 

The  blank  blanched  sands  were  shapen  to  a  tomb, 

Where,  under  the  wild  midnight's  troubled  frown, 

With  his  pale  burden  in  his  arms,  went  down 

Her  mortal  lover.     Meaningly  the  waves 

Wash  by  two  lonesome  graves ; 

One  holds  the  ashes  of  the  beauteous  boy 

Whose  harmless  joy 

Of  playing  the  fifth  season  in  the  sun, 

Was  all  untimely  done. 

Away,  my  dream,  away ! 

Like  young  buds  blackened  in  the  front  of  May 

And  wasted  in  the  rude  unpitying  frost, 

My  early  hopes  are  lost. 

Night,  send  the  angel  of  the  dark  to  spread 

With  daintiest  sheets  my  bed 

In  that  low  chamber  where  for  evermore 

Love's  cruel  pain  is  o'er. 


THE  POET. 

UPON  a  bed  of  flowery  moss, 
With  moonbeams  falling  all  across 
Moonbeams  chilly  and  faint  and  dim, 
(Sweet  eyes  I  ween  do  watch  for  him) 
Lieth  his  starry  dreams  among, 
The  gentlest  poet  ever  sung. 

The  wood  is  thick — 't  is  late  in  night, 

Yet  feareth  he  no  evil  sprite, 

Nor  vexing  ghost — such  things  there  be 

In  many  a  poet's  destiny. 

Haply  some  wretched  fast  or  prayer, 

Pained  and  long,  hath  charmed  the  air. 

Softer  than  hymenial  hymns 

The  fountains,  bubbling  o'er  their  rims, 

Wash  through  the  vernal  reeds,  and  fill 

The  hollows :  all  beside  is  still, 

Save  the  poet's  breathing,  low  and  light. 

Watch  no  more,  lady — no  more  to-night  !- 

Heavy  his  gold  locks  are  with  dew, 

Yet  by  the  pansies  mixed  with  rue 


22  THEPOET. 

Bitter  and  rough,  but  now  that  fell 
From  his  shut  hand,  he  sleepeth  well. 
He  sleepeth  well,  and  his  dream  is  bright 
Under  the  moonbeams  chilly  and  white. 

The  night  is  dreary,  the  boy  is  fair — 
Hath  he  been  mated  with  Despair, 
Or  crossed  in  love,  that  he  lies  alone 
With  shadows  and  moonlight  overblown — 
Shadows  and  moonlight  chilly  and  dim  7 
And  do  no  sweet  eyes  watch  for  him  1 

Nay,  rather  is  his  soul  instead 

With  immortal  thirst  disquieted, 

That  oft  like  an  echo  wild  and  faint 

He  makes  to  the  hills  and  the  groves  his  plaint? 

That  oft  the  light  on  his  forehead  gleams, 

So  troubled  under  its  crown  of  dreams  ? 

Watch  no  more,  lady,  no  more,  I  pray, 
He  is  wrapt  in  a  lonely  power  away  ! 
Sweet  boy,  so  sleeping,  might  it  be 
That  any  prayer  I  said  for  thee 
Could  answer  win  from  the  spirit  shore, 
This  were  it,  "  Let  him  wake  no  more !" 


LILY  LEE. 

•  f 

I  DID  love  thee,  Lily  Lee, 
As  the  petrel  loves  the  sea, 
As  the  wild  bee  loves  the  thyme, 
As  the  poet  loves  his  rhyme, 
As  the  blossom  loves  the  dew — 
But  the  angels  loved  thee,  too ! 

Once  when  twilight's  dying  head 
Pressed  her  golden-sheeted  bed, 
And  the  silent  stars  drew  near, 
White  and  tremulous  with  fear, 
While  the  night's  repellent  frown 
Strangled  the  young  zephyr  down, 
Told  I  all  my  love  to  thee, 
Hoping,  fearing,  Lily  Lee. 

Fluttered  then  her  gentle  breast 
With  a  troubled,  sweet  unrest, 
Like  a  bird  too  near  the  net 
Which  the  fowler's  hand  hath  set ; 
But  her  mournful  eyes  the  while, 
And  her  spirit-speaking  smile, 
Told  me  love  could  not  dispart 
Death's  pale  arrow  from  her  heart. 


24  LILY     LEE. 

Hushing  from  that  very  day 
Passion  pleading  to  have  way — " 
Folding  close  her  little  hand, 
Watched  I  with  her,  till  the  sand, 
Crumbling  from  beneath  her  tread, 
Lowered  her  softly  to  the  dead, 
Where  in  peace  she  waits  for  me — 
Sweetest,  dearest  Lily  Lee. 

As  the  chased  hart  loves  the  wave, 
As  blind  silence  loves  the  grave, 
As  the  penitent  loves  prayer, 
As  pale  passion  loves  despair, 
Loved  I,  and  still  love  I  thee, 
Angel-stolen  Lily  Lee. 


DEATH-SONG. 

FRIEND,  if  there  be  any  near, 

Is  the  blessed  summer  here  ? 

Is  't  the  full  moon,  are  they  flowers, 

Make  so  bright,  so  sweet  the  hours  ? 

Is  't  the  wind  from  cowslip  beds, 

That  such  fragrance  o'er  me  sheds  1 

Oh  my  kindred,  do  not  weep ; 
Never  fell  so  sweet  a  sleep 
Over  mortal  eyes.    At  night, 
All  the  hills  with  snow  were  white, 
And  the  tempest  moaning  drear — 
But  I  wake  with  summer  here. 

Haste,  and  take  my  parting  hand ! 
We  are  pushing  from  the  land, 
And  adown  a  lovely  stream 
Gently  floating — is't  a  dream  ? 
For  the  oarsman  near  me  sings, 
Keeping  time  with  snowy  wings. 


26  DEATH     SONG. 

b 

On  the  dim  shore,  within  hail, 
I  can  see  a  reaper  pale, 
With  his  bosom  full  of  sheaves — 
Many  are  the  stocks  he  leaves, 
Fair  and  ripe  enough  to  bind — 
Pallid  reaper,  art  thou  blind  ? 

Stranger,  with  the  wings  of  snow, 
Singing  by  me  as  we  row, 
Tell  my  dear  ones  on  the  shore, 
I  have  need  of  them  no  more ; 
Weeping  will  not  let  them  see 
That  an  angel  goes  with  me. 


WOOD  NYMPHS. 

WOOD  NYMPHS,  that  do  hereabouts 
Dwell,  and  hold  your  pleasant  routes, 
When  beneath  her  cloak  so  white, 
Holding  close  the  black-eyed  Night, 
Twilight,  sweetly  voluble, 
Acquaints  herself  with  shadows  dull ; 
While  above  your  rustic  camp, 
Hesperus,  his  pallid  lamp 
For  the  coming  darkness  trims, 
From  the  gnarled  bark  of  limbs 
Rough  and  crabbed — slide  to  view  ! 
I  have  work  for  you  to  do. 

To  this  neighborhood  of  shade 
Came  I,  the  most  woful  maid 
That  did  ever  comfort  glean 
From  the  songs  of  birds,  I  ween  ; 
Or  from  rills  through  hollow  meads, 
Washing  over  beds  of  reeds, 
When,  to  vex  with  more  annoy, 
Found  I  here  this  sleeping  boy. 


28  WOOD     NYMPHS. 

I  must  learn  some  harmless  art, 
That  will  bind  to  mine  his  heart. 
Never  creature  of  the  air 
Saw  I  in  a  dream  so  fair. 
Wood  nymphs,  lend  your  charmed  aid- 
Underneath  the  checkered  shade 
Of  each  tangled  bough  that  stirs 
To  the  wind,  in  shape  of  burs, 
Rough  and  prickly,  or  sharp  thorn — 
Whence  the  tame  ewe,  slimly  shorn. 
Stained  with  crimson,  hurries  oft, 
Bleating  toward  the  distant  croft — 
Dew  of  potency  is  found 
That  would  leave  my  forehead  crowned 
With  the  very  chrisms  of  joy — 
The  sweet  kisses  of  this  boy. 
These  quaint  uses  you  must  know — 
Poets  wise  have  writ  it  so. 

When  the  charm  so  deftly  planned, 
Shall  be  wrought,  I  have  in  hand, 
Work  your  nimble  crew  to  please, 
Mixed  alone  of  sweetnesses. 
This  it  is  to  bring  to  me 
Fairest  of  all  flowers  that  be — 
Oxlips  red,  and  columbines, 
Ivies,  with  blue  flowering  twines, 
Flags  that  grow  by  shallow  springs, 
Purple,  prankt  with  yellow  rings ; 
Slim  ferns,  bound  in  golden  sheaves  ; 
Mandrakes,  with  the  notched  leaves ; 


WOOD     NVilPHS.  29 

Pink  and  crowbind,  nor  o'erpass 
The  white  daisies  in  the  grass. 
Of  the  daintiest  that  you  pull, 
I  will  tie  a  garland  full, 
And  upon  this  oaken  bough 
Dropping  coolest  shadows  now, 
Hang  it,  'gainst  his  face  to  swing, 
Till  he  wakes  from  slumbering ; 
Evermore  to  live  and  love 
In  this  dim  consenting  grove. 

Shaggy  beasts  with  hungry  eyes— 
Ugly,  spotted,  dragonflies — 
Limber  snakes  drawn  up  to  rings, 
And  the  thousand  hateful  things 
That  are  bred  in  forests  drear, 
Never  shall  disturb  us  here ; 
For  my  love  and  I  will  see 
Only  the  sweet  company 
Of  the  nymphs  that  round  me  glide 
With  the  shades  of  eventide. 

Crow  of  cock,  nor  belfry  chime, 
Shall  we  need  to  count  the  time — 
Tuneful  footfalls  in  the  flowers 
Kinging  out  and  in  the  hours. 


THE  DAUGHTER. 

ALACK,  it  is  a  dismal  night — 

In  gusts  of  thin  and  vapory  light 

The  moonshine  overbloweth  quite 

The  fretful  bosom  of  the  storm, 

That  beats  against,  but  cannot  harm 

The  lady,  whose  chaste  thoughts  do  charm 

Better  than  pious  fast  or  prayer 

The  evil  spells  and  sprites  of  air — 

In  sooth,  were  she  in  saintly  care 

Safer  she  could  not  be  than  now 

With  truth's  white  crown  upon  her  brow-— 

So  sovereign,  innocence,  art  thou. 

Just  in  the  green  top  of  a  hedge 
That  runs  along  a  valley's  edge 
One  star  has  thrust  a  golden  wedge, 
And  all  the  sky  beside  is  drear — 
It  were  no  cowardice  to  fear 
If  some  belated  traveller  near, 
To  visionary  fancies  born, 
Should  see  upon  the  moor,  forlorn, 
With  spiky  thistle  burs  and  thorn  ; 


THE     DAUGHTER.  31 

The  lovely  lady  silent  go, 

Not  on  a  "  palfrey  white  as  snow," 

But  with  sad  eyes  and  footstep  slow ; 

And  softly  leading  by  the  hand 

An  old  man  who  has  nearly  spanned 

With  his  white  hairs,  life's  latest  sand. 


Hope  in  her  faint  heart  newly  thrills 
As  down  a  barren  reach  of  hills 
Before  her  fly  two  whippoorwills ; 
But  the  gray  owl  keeps  up  his  wail — 
His  feathers  ruffled  in  the  gale, 
Drowning  almost  their  dulcet  tale. 

Often  the  harmless  flock  she  sees 

Lying  white  along  the  grassy  leas, 

Like  lily-bells  weighed  down  with  bees. 

Sometimes  the  boatman's  horn  she  hears 

Rousing  from  rest  the  plowman's  steers, 

Lowing  untimely  to  their  peers. 

And  now  and  then  the  moonlight  snake 

Curls  up  its  white  folds,  for  her  sake, 

Closer  within  the  poison  brake. 

But  still  she  keeps  her  lonesome  way, 

Or  if  she  pauses,  'tis  to  say 

Some  word  of  comfort,  else  to  pray. 

For  'tis  a  blustery  night  withal, 

In  spite  of  star  or  moonlight's  fall, 

Or  the  two  whippoorwills'  sweet  call. 


32  THE     DAUGHTER. 

What  doth  the  gentle  lady  here 
Within  a  wood  so  dark  and  drear, 
Nor  hermit's  lodge  nor  castle  near  ? 
See  in  the  distance  robed  and  crowned 
A  prince  with  all  his  chiefs  around, 
And  like  sweet  light  o'er  sombre  ground 
A  meek  and  lovely  lady,  there 
Proffering  her  earnest,  piteous  prayer 
For  an  old  man  with  silver  hair. 

But  what  of  evil  he  hath  done 
O'erclouding  beauty's  April  sun 
I  know  not — nor  if  lost  or  won. 
The  lady's  pleading,  sweet  and  low — 
About  her  pilgrimage  of  wo, 
Is  all  that  I  shall  ever  know. 


DESPAIR. 

COME,  most  melancholy  maid, 
From  thy  tent  of  woful  shade, 
And  with  hemlock,  sere  and  brown, 
Keep  the  struggling  daylight  down. 
From  thy  pale  unsmiling  brow 
Wind  the  heavy  tresses  now, 
And  in  whispers  sad  and  low 
I  will  tell  thee  all  my  wo. 

The  path  watched  and  guarded  most, 
By  an  evil  star  is  crossed, 
And  a  dear  one  lies  to  day 
Sick,  in  prison,  far  away — 
Naked,  famished,  suffering  wrong ; 
Dreamed  I  of  him  all  night  long, 
And  each  dreary  wind  o'erblown 
Seemed  an  echo  of  his  moan. 

When  he  left  me,  long  ago, 
Brown  locks,  touched  of  summer's  glow, 
Beautified  his  boyish  brow — 
Thinned  and  faded  are  they  now. 


34  DESPAIR. 

Seeing  clouds  like  oxen  stray 
Through  the  azure  fields  all  day, 
And  the  lengthening  sunbeams  lie 
Like  bright  furrows  of  the  sky, 
Underneath  an  oaken  roof 
We  were  sitting,  sorrow-proof — 
Cheating  I  with  tales  the  hours, 
Heaping  he  my  lap  with  flowers. 

As  yon  elm,  the  ivied  one, 
Came  between  us  and  the  sun, 
And  the  lambs  went  toward  the  fold, 
I  remember  that  I  told, 
How  the  robin  and  the  wren, 
Friendless  and  unburied  men 
Cover  with  the  leaves  of  flowers 
From  the  twilight's  chilly  hours. 

Now  along  the  level  snow 
Glistening  the  frost  specks  glow, 
And  the  trees  stand  high  and  bare, 
Shivering  in  the  bitter  air. 
— Come,  oh  melancholy  maid, 
From  thy  tent  of  woful  shade, 
That  in  whispers,  sad  and  low, 
I  may  tell  thee  all  my  wo. 


YESTERNIGHT. 

YESTERNIGHT — how  long  it  seems ! — 
Met  I  in  the  land  of  dreams, 
One  that  loved  me  long  ago — 
Better  it  had  not  been  so. 

No,  we  met  not  as  of  old — 

I  was  planting  in  the  mould 

Of  his  grave,  some  flowers  to  be, 

When  he  came  and  talked  with  me. 

White  his  forehead  was,  and  fair, 
With  such  crowns  as  angels  wear, 
And  his  voice — but  I  alone 
Ever  heard  so  sweet  a  tone ! 

All  I  prized  but  yesterday 
In  the  distance  lessening  lay, 
Like  some  golden  cloud  afar, 
Fallen  and  faded  from  a  star. 

Hushed  the  chamber  is,  he  said, 
Hushed  and  dark  where  we  must  wed, 
But  our  bridal  home  is  bright — 
Wilt  thou  go  with  me  to-night  ? 


36  YESTERNIGHT. 

Answering  then,  I  sadly  said, 
I  am  living,  thou  art  dead  ; 
Darkness  rests  between  us  twain, 
\Yho  shall  make  the  pathway  plain? 

Ah !  thou  lovest  not,  he  cried, 
Else  to  thee  I  had  not  died ; 
Else  all  other  hope  would  be 
As  a  rain-drop  to  the  sea. 

Farther,  dimmer,  earth  withdrew, 
Lower,  softer  bent  the  blue, 
And  like  bubbles  in  the  wine 
Blent  the  whispers,  I  am  thine. 

Angels  saw  I  to  their  bowers 
Bearing  home  the  sheaves  of  flowers, 
And  could  hear  their  anthem  swells, 
Reaping  in  the  asphodels. 

O'er  my  head  a  wlldbird  flew, 
Shaking  in  my  face  the  dew  ; 
Underneath  a  woodland  tree, 
I,  my  love,  had  dreamed  of  thee. 


TO  THE  SPIRIT  OF  SONG. 

COME,  sweet  spirit,  come,  I  pray, 
Thou  hast  been  too  long  away ; 
Come,  and  in  the  dreamland  light, 
Keep  with  me  a  tryst  to-night. 

"When  the  reapers  once  at  morn 
Bound  the  golden  stocks  of  corn, 
Shadowy  hands,  that  none  could  see, 
Gleaned  along  the  field  with  me. 

Come,  and  with  thy  wings  so  white 
Hide  me  from  a  wicked  sprite, 
That  has  vexed  me  with  a  sign 
Which  I  tremble  to  divine. 

At  a  black  loom  sisters  three 
Saw  I  weaving ;  Can  it  be, 
Thought  1,  as  I  saw  them  crowd 
The  white  shuttles,  'tis  a  shroud? 

Silently  the  loom  they  left,     . 
Taking  mingled  warp  and  weft, 
And,  as  wild  my  bosom  beat, 
Measured  me  from  head  to  feet. 
2* 


38  TO     THE     SPIRIT     OF     SONG. 

Liest  thou  in  the  drowning  brine, 
Sweetest,  gentlest  love  of  mine, 
Tangled  softly  from  my  prayer, 
By  some  Nereid's  shining  hair  ? 

Or,  when  mortal  hope  withdrew, 
Didst  thou,  faithless,  leave  me  too, 
Blowing  on  thy  lovely  reed, 
Careless  how  my  heart  should  bleed  1 

By  this  sudden  chill  I  know 
That  it  is,  it  must  be  so — 
Sprite  of  darkness,  sisters  three, 
Lo,  I  wait  your  ministry. 


PKOPHECY. 

I  THINK  thou  lovest  me — yet  a  prophet  said 

To-day,  Elhadra,  if  thou  laidest  dead, 
From  thy  white  forehead  would  he  fold  the  shroud, 

And  thereon  lay  his  sorrow,  like  a  crown. 
The  drenching  rain  from  out  the  chilly  cloud, 

In  the  gray  ashes  beats  the  red  flame  down ! 
And  when  the  crimson  folds  the  kiss  away 

No  longer,  and  blank  dulness  fills  the  eyes, 
Lifting  its  beauty  from  the  crumbling  clay, 

Back  to  the  light  of  earth  life's  angel  flies. 

So,  with  my  large  faith  unto  gloom  allied, 
Sprang  up  a  shadow  sunshine  could  not  quell, 

And  the  voice  said,  Would'st  haste  to  go  outside 
This  continent  of  being,  it  were  well : 

Where  finite,  growing  toward  the  Infinite, 
Gathers  its  robe  of  glory  out  of  dust, 

And  looking  down  the  radiances  white, 
Sees  all  God's  purposes  about  us,  just. 

Canst  thou,  Elhadra,  reach  out  of  the  grave, 
And  draw  the  golden  waters  of  love's  well  ? 

His  years  are  chrisms  of  brightness  in  time's  wave— 
Thine  are  as  dewdrops  in  the  nightshade's  bell ! 


40  PROPHECY.' 

Then  straightening  in  my  hands  the  rippled  length 

Of  all  my  tresses,  slowly,  one  by  one, 
I  took  the  flowers  out.     Dear  one,  in  thy  strength 

Pray  for  my  weakness.     Thou  hast  seen  the  sun, 
Large  in  the  setting,  drive  a  column  of  light, 

Down  through  the  darkness ;  so,  within  death's  night, 
Oh,  my  beloved !  when  J  shall  have  gone, 
If  it  might  be  so,  would  my  love  burn  on. 


PERVERSITY. 

IF  thy  weak,  puny  hand  might  reach  away 
And  rend  out  lightnings  from  the  clouds  to-day, 
At  little  pains,  as,  with  a  candle  flame 

Touching  the,  flax  upon  my  distaff  here 
Would  fill  the  house  with  light,  it  were  the  same — 
A  little  thing  to  do.     It  is  the  far 
Makes  half  the  poet's  passion  for  the  star, 

The  while  he  treads  the  shining  dewdrop  near. 

Of  mortal  weaknesses  I  have  my  share — 

Pining  and  longing,  and  the  madman's  fit 
Of  groundless  hatreds,  blindest  loves,  despair — 

But  in  this  rhymed  musing  I  have  writ 
Of  an  infirmity  that  is  not  mine  : 
My  heart's  dear  idol  were  not  less  divine 
That  no  grave  gaped  between  us,  black  and  steep ; 
Though,  if  it  were  so,  I  could  oversweep 

Its  gulf — all  gulfs — though  ne'er  so  widely  riven; 
Or  from  hot  desert  sands  dig  out  sweet  springs  j 
For  I  believe,  and  I  have  still  believed, 
That  Love  may  even  fold  its  milk-white  wings 

In  the  red  bosom  of  hell,  nor  up  to  heaven 
Measure  the  distance  with  one  thought  aggrieved. 


42  PERVERSITY. 

Why  should  I  tear  my  flesh,  and  bruise  my  feet, 
Climbing  for  roses,  when,  from  where  I  stand, 
Down  the  green  meadow  I  may  reach  my  hand, 

And  pluck  them  off  as  well  1 — sweet,  very  sweet 
This  world  which  God  has  made  about  us  lies, — 
Shall  we  reproach  him  with  unthankful  eyes  ? 


ANNUARIES. 


A  TEAR  has  gone  down  silently 

To  the  dark  bosom  of  the  Past, 
Since  I  beneath  this  very  tree 

Sat  hoping,  fearing,  dreaming,  last ; 
Its  waning  glories,  like  a  flame, 

Are  trembling  to  the  wind's  light  touch — 
All  just  a  year  ago  the  same, 

And  I — oh  !  I — am  changed  so  much  ! 

The  beauty  of  a  wildering  dream 

Hung  softly  round  declining  day  ; 
A  star  of  all  too  sweet  a  beam 

In  Eve's  flushed  bosom  trembling  lay ; 
Changed  in  its  aspect,  yet  the  same, 

Still  climbs  that  star  from  sunset's  glow, 
But  its  embraces  of  pale  flame 

Clasp  not  the  weary  world  from  wo. 

Another  year  shall  I  return, 

And  cross  this  solemn  chapel  floor, 

While  round  me  memory's  shrine-lamps  burn — 
Or  shall  this  pilgrimage  be  o'er  ? 


44  ANNUARIES. 

One  that  I  loved,  grown  faint  with  strife, 
When  drooped  and  died  the  tenderer  bloom, 

Folded  the  white  tent  of  young  life 
For  the  pale  army  of  the  tomb. 

The  dry  seeds  dropping  from  their  pods, 

The  hawthorn  apples  bright  as  dawn, 
And  the  pale  mullen's  starless  rods, 

Were  just  as  now  a  year  agone  ; 
But  changed  is  everything  to  me, 

From  the  small  flower  to  sunset's  glow, 
Since  last  I  sat  beneath  this  tree, 

A  year — a  little  year — ago. 

I  leaned  against  this  broken  bough, 

This  faded  turf  my  footstep  pressed ; 
But  glad  hopes  that  are  not  there  now, 

Lay  softly  trembling  in  my  breast — 
Trembling,  for  though  the  golden  haze, 

Rose,  as  the  dead  leaves  drifted  by, 
As  from  the  Vala  of  old  days, 

The  mournful  voice  of  prophecy. 

Give  woman's  heart  one  triumph  hour. 

Even  on  the  borders  of  the  grave, 
And  thou  hast  given  her  strength  and  power 

The  saddest  ills  of  life  to  brave  ; 
Crush  that  far  hope  down,  thou  dost  bring 

To  the  poor  bird  the  tempest's  wrath, 
Without  the  petrel's  stormy  wing 

To  beat  the  darkness  from  its  path. 


ANNUARIE6.  45 

Once  knowing  mortal  hope  and  fear, 

Whate'er  in  heaven's  sweet  clime  thou  art, 
Bend,  pitying  mother,  softly  near, 

And  save,  O  save  me  from  ray  heart ! 
Be  still,  pale-handed  memory, 

My  knee  is  trembling  on  the  sod — 
The  heir  of  immortality, 

A  child  of  the  eternal  God. 

n. 

When  last  year  took  her  mournful  flight, 

With  all  her  train  of  wo  and  ill, 
As  pale  processions  sweep  at  night 

Across  some  lonesome  burial  hill— 
My  soul  with  sorrow  for  its  mate, 

And  bowed  with  unrequited  wrong, 
Stood  knocking  at  the  starry  gate 

Of  the  wild  wondrous  realm  of  song. 

For  hope  from  my  poor  heart  was  gone, 

With  all  the  sheltering  peace  it  gave, 
And  a  dim  twilight  stealing  on, 

Foretold  the  night-time  of  the  grave. 
Past  is  that  time  of  wild  unrest, 

Hope  reillumes  its  faded  track, 
And  the  soft  hand  of  love  has  prest 

Death's  deep  and  awful  shadows  back 

A  year  agone,  when  wildly  shrill 

The  wind  sat  singing  on  this  bough, 
The  churchyard  on  the  neighboring  hill 

Had  not  so  many  graves  as  now. 


46  ANNUARIES. 

Yet  still  beneath  the  golden  hours, 
That  like  a  roof  the  woods  o'erspread, 

Among  the  few  and  faded  flowers, 
Musing  this  idle  rhyme  I  tread. 

When  the  May-mom,  with  hand  of  light, 

The  clouds  about  her  bosom  drew, 
And  o'er  the  blue,  cold  steeps  of  night 

Went  treading  out  the  stars  like  dew — 
One,  whose  dear  joy  it  had  been  ours 

Two  little  summer  times  to  keep, 
Folded  his  white  hands  from  the  flowers, 

And,  softly  smiling,  fell  asleep. 

And  when  the  northern  light  streamed  cold 

Across  October's  moaning  blast, 
One  whose  brief  tarrying  was  foretold 

All  the  sweet  summer  that  was  past, 
Meekly  unlocked  from  her  young  arms 

The  scarcely  faded  bridal  crown, 
And  in  death's  fearful  night  of  storms 

The  dim  day  of  her  life  went  down. 

Above  yon  reach  of  level  mist 

Bright  shines  the  cross-crowned  spire  afar, 
As  in  the  sky's  clear  amethyst 

The  splendor  of  some  steadfast  star ; 
And  still  beneath  its  steady  light 

The  waves  of  time  heave  to  and  fro, 
From  night  to  day,  from  day  to  night, 

As  the  dim  seasons  come  and  go. 


ANNUARIES.  47 

Some  eager  for  ambition's  strife, 

Some  to  love's  banquet  hurrying  on, 
Like  pilgrims  on  the  hills  of  life 

We  cross  each  other,  and  are  gone ; 
But  though  our  lives  are  little  drops, 

Welled  from  the  infinite  fount  above, 
Our  deaths  are  but  the  mystic  stops 

In  the  great  melody  of  love. 

in. 

Vailing  the  basement  of  the  skies 

October's  mists  hang  dull  and  red, 
And  with  each  wild  gust's  fall  and  rise, 

The  yellow  leaves  are  round  me  spread ; 
'Tis  the  third  autumn,  aye,  so  long  ! 

Since  memory  'neath  this  very  bough, 
Thrilled  my  sad  lyre  strings  into  song — 

What  shall  unlock  their  music  now  ? 

Then  sang  I  of  a  sweet  hope  changed, 

Of  pale  hands  beckoning,  glad  health  fled, 
Of  hearts  grown  careless  or  estranged, 

Of  friends,  or  living,  lost,  or  dead. 
O  living  lost,  forever  lost, 

Your  light  still  lingers,  faint  and  far, 
As  if  an  awful  shadow  crossed 

The  bright  disk  of  the  morning  star. 

Blow,  autumn,  in  thy  wildest  wrath, 

Down  from  the  northern  woodlands,  blow ! 

Drift  the  last  wild-flowers  from  my  path — 
What  care  I  for  the  summer  now ! 


48  ANNUARIES. 

Yet  shrink  I,  trembling  and  afraid 

From  searching  glances  inward  thrown  ; 

"What  deep  foundation  have  I  laid, 
For  any  joyance  not  my  own  1 

"While  with  my  poor,  unskilful  hands, 

Half  hopeful,  half  in  vague  alarm, 
Building  up  walls  of  shining  sands 

That  fell  and  faded  with  the  storm, 
E'en  now  my  bosom  shakes  with  fear, 

Like  the  last  leaflets  of  this  bough, 
For  through  the  silence  I  can  hear, 

"  Unprofitable  servant,  thou  !" 

Yet  have  there  been,  there  are  to-day 

In  spite  of  health,  or  hope's  decline, 
Fountains  of  beauty  sealed  away 

From  every  mortal  eye  but  mine ; 
Even  dreams  have  filled  my  soul  with  light, 

And  on  my  way  their  beauty  left, 
As  if  the  darkness  of  the  night 

Were  by  some  planet's  rising  cleft. 

And  peace  hath  in  my  heart  been  born, 

That  shut  from  memory  all  life's  ills, 
In  walking  with  the  blue-eyed  morn 

Among  the  white  mists  of  the  hills. 
And  joyous,  I  have  heard  the  wails 

That  heave  the  wild  woods  to  and  fro, 
When  autumn's  crown  of  crimson  pales 

Beneath  the  winter's  hand  of  snow. 


ANKUARIE8.  49 

Once,  leaving  all  its  lovely  mates, 

On  yonder  lightning-withered  tree, 
That  vainly  for  the  springtime  waits, 

A  wild  bird  perched  and  sang  for  me ; 
And  listening  to  the  clear  sweet  strain 

That  came  like  sunshine  o'er  the  day, 
My  forehead's  hot  and  burning  pain 

Fell  like  a  crown  of  thorns  away. 

But  shadows  from  the  western  height 

Are  stretching  to  the  valley  low, 
For  through  the  cloudy  gates  of  night 

The  day  is  passing,  solemn,  slow, 
While  o'er  yon  blue  and  rocky  steep 

The  moon,  half  hidden  in  the  mist, 
Waits  for  the  loving  wind  to  keep 

The  promise  of  the  twilight  tryst. 

Come  thou,  whose  meek  blue  eyes  divine, 

What  thou,  and  only  thou  canst  see, 
I  wait  to  put  my  hand  in  thine — 

What  answer  sendest  thou  to  me  1 
Ah  !  thoughts  of  one  whom  helpless  blight 

Had  pushed  from  all  fair  hope  apart, 
Making  it  thenceforth  hers  to  fight 

The  stormy  battles  of  the  heart. 

Well,  I  have  no  complaint  of  wrath, 

And  no  reproaches  for  my  doom ; 
Spring  cannot  blossom  in  thy  path 

So  bright  as  I  would  have  it  bloom. 


50  AKNUARIES. 

IV. 

Oh,  sorrowful  and  faded  years, 

Gathered  away  a  time  ago, 
How  could  your  deaths  the  fount  of  tears 

Have  troubled  to  an  overflow  ? 
I  muse  upon  the  songs  I  made 

Beneath  the  maple's  yellow  limbs, 
When  down  the  aisles  of  thin  cold  shade 

Sounded  the  wild  bird's  farewell  hymns. 

But  no  sad  spell  my  spirit  binds 

As  when,  in  days  on  which  it  broods, 
October  hunted  with  the  winds 

Along  the  reddening  sunset  woods. 
Alas,  the  seasons  come  and  go, 

Brightly  or  dimly  rise  and  set 
The  days,  but  stir  no  fount  of  wo, 

Nor  kindle  hope,  nor  wake  regret. 

I  sit  with  the  complaining  night, 

And  underneath  the  waning  moon, 
As  when  the  lilies  large  and  white 

Lay  round  the  forehead  of  the  June. 
What  time  within  a  snowy  grave 

Closed  the  blue  eyes  so  heavenly  dear, 
Darkness  swept  o'er  me  like  a  wave, 

And  time  has  nothing  that  I  fear. 

The  golden  wings  of  summer's  hours 
Make  to  my  heart  a  dirge-like  sound, 

The  spring's  sweet  boughs  of  bridal  flowers 
Lie  bright  across  a  smooth-heaped  mound. 


A.NNUARIE8.  51 

What  care  I  that  I  sing  to-day 

Where  sound  not  the  old  plaintive  hymns, 
And  where  the  mountains  hide  away 

The  sunset  maple's  yellow  limbs'? 


ANNIE  CLAYVILLE. 

IN  the  bright'ning  wake  of  April 

Comes  the  lovely,  lovely  May, 
But  the  step  of  Annie  Clay  ville 

Falleth  fainter  day  by  day. 
In  despite  of  sunshine,  shadows 

Lie  upon  her  heart  and  brow  : 
Last  year  she  was  gay  and  happy — 

Life  is  nothing  to  her  now ! 

When  she  hears  the  wild  bird  singing, 
Or  the  sweetly  humming  bee, 

Only  says  she,  faintly  smiling, 
What  have  you  to  do  with  me  ? 

Yet,  sing  out  for  pleasant  weather, 

Wild  birds  in  the  woodland  dells — 
Fly  out,  little  bees,  and  gather 

Honey  for  your  waxen  wells. 
Softly,  silver  rain  of  April, 

Come  down  singing  from  the  clouds, 
Till  the  daffodils  and  daisies 

Shall  be  up  in  golden  crowds ; 


ANNIE     CLAYVILLK.  53 

Till  the  wild  pinks  hedge  the  meadows, 

Blushing  out  of  slender  stems, 
And  the  dandelions,  starry, 

Cover  all  the  hills  with  gems. 
From  your  cool  beds  in  the  rivers, 

Blow,  fresh  winds,  and  gladness  bring 
To  the  locks  that  wait  to  hide  you — 

What  have  I  to  do  with  spring  ? 

May  is  past — along  the  hollows 

Chime  the  rills  in  sleepy  tune, 
While  the  harvests  yellow  chaplefc 

Swings  against  the  face  of  June. 

Very  pale  lies  Annie  Clayville — 

Still  her  forehead,  shadow-crowned, 
And  the  watchers  hear  her  saying, 

As  they  softly  tread  around : 
Go  out,  reapers,  for  the  hill  tops 

Twinkle  with  the  summer's  heat — 
Lay  from  out  your  swinging  cradles 

Golden  furrows  of  ripe  wheat ! 
While  the  little  laughing  children, 

Lightly  mixing  work  with  play, 
From  between  the  long  green  winrows 

Glean  the  sweetly-scented  hay. 
Let  your  sickles  shine  like  sunbeams 

In  the  silver-flowing  rye, 
Ears  grow  heavy  in  the  cornfields — 

That  will  claim  you  by  and  by. 


54  ANNIE     CLATVILLE. 

Go  out,  reapers,  -with  your  sickles, 
Gather  home  the  harvest  store  ! 

Little  gleaners,  laughing  gleaners, 
I  shall  go  with  you  no  more. 

Round  the  red  moon  of  October, 

White  and  cold  the  eve-stars  climb, 
Birds  are  gone,  and  flowers  are  dying — 

'Tis  a  lonesome,  lonesome  time. 
Yellow  leaves  along  the  woodland 

Surge  to  drifts — the  elm-bough  sways, 
Creaking  at  the  homestead  window 

All  the  weary  nights  and  days. 
Dismally  the  rain  is  falling — 

Very  dismally  and  cold ; 
Close,  within  the  village  graveyard, 

By  a  heap  of  freshest  mould, 
With  a  simple,  nameless  headstone, 

Lies  a  low  and  narrow  mound, 
And  the  brow  of  Annie  Clayville 

Is  no  longer  shadow  crowned. 
Rest  thee,  lost  one,  rest  thee  calmly, 

Glad  to  go  where  pain  is  o'er — 
Where  they  say  not,  through  the  night-time, 

"  I  am  weary,"  any  more. 


MILNA  GREY. 

BURNED  the  blushing  cheek  of  morning 

Soft,  beneath  the  locks  of  Day, 
As  within  his  noble  garden 

Stanley  mused  of  Milna  Grey. 
Heedless  of  the  bright  laburnums 

Raining  on  his  path  in  showers ; 
Of  the  lilacs  faint  and  tender, 

And  the  peach-wands  full  of  flowers ; 
Of  the  red-winged  thrush's  singing ; 

Of  the  wind,  whose  separate  trills 
Broke  the  mists  to  golden  furrows 

Up  and  down  the  peaked  hills — 
Heedless  of  the  huntsmen  riding 

With  their  hawks  and  hounds  away, 
If  the  lattice  lights  be  darkened 

With  the  locks  of  Milna  Grey. 
"  Ere  the  sun,  so  brightly  rising, 

Dimly  down  the  west  shall  go, 
I  will  tell  her  all  my  story — 

It  can  add  not  to  my  wo." 


56  MILNAGREY. 

Warmer,  broader,  fell  the  sunshine, 

Birds  and  bees  about  him  flew, 
And  the  flower-stocks  on  the  borders 

Dript  no  longer  with  the  dew. 
Suddenly  his  wan  cheek  flushes, 

And  his  step  turns  half  away ; 
Slowly  down  the  alder  shadows 

Walks  the  lovely  Milna  Grey ; 
Sadly  then  his  heart  misgave  him, 

And  his  lip  an  utterance  found, 
Only  said,  "  Why,  gentlest  Milna,  - 

Is  thy  brow  with  sorrow  crowned  ?" 
Not  as  his,  her  bosom  trembled — 

Not  as  his,  her  glances  fell, 
As  she  answered,  sweetly,  meekly, 

"  Though  the  tale  be  sad  to  tell ; 
Something  in  the  slips  so  silken 

Fallen  uncurled  adown  thy  cheek — 
Something"  in  thy  blue  eyes,  Stanley, 

Wins  what  else  I  would  not  speak. 
A  bright  path  through  years  of  darkness 

Is  cleft  open  by  thy  smile, 
And  I  feel  life's  blossoms  slipping 

Through  my  fingers  as  erewhile, 
As  my  thoughts  in  pensive  gladness 

Over  barren  reaches  flow 
To  a  shrine  of  wondrous  beauty, 

Broken,  ruined  long  ago. 
By  the  gray  wall  of  the  churchyard 

Where  the  red-stalked  creeper  clings, 


MILXA     GREY.  57 

And  the  wild-breeze  in  the  larch-boughs 

Oft  in  summer  stops  and  sings ; 
In  the  rains  of  seven  dim  autumns 

Has  the  throstle  sadly  cried, 
And  the  white  grass  fallen  above  him, 

Who  to  me  has  never  died. 
Yet  my  love  was  not  as  mortals', 

In  hope's  sweetest  passion  nursed — 
Dreams  and  prophecies  forewarned  me 

Of  our  dark  doom  from  the  first. 
Oft  my  lost  one  smiled,  to  soothe  me, 

Saying,  faith  is  strong  to  save, 
And  though  life,  he  knew,  was  turning 

The  dark  furrow  of  the  grave, 
Seemed  he  scarce  to  heed  the  fading 

Of  the  day,  or  night  hard  by — 
Folding  down  the  golden  shadows 

Of  love's  twilight  in  our  sky — 
But,  more  leaning  on  God's  mercy, 

As  the  mortal  fainter  grew, 
Went  he  close  to  death's  still  water, 

And  the  angels  took  him  through. 
Even  as  some  young  bough  of  blossorna 

Stricken  into  pallid  stone, 
Was  my  heart  transformed  thenceforward, 

And  my  nature  left  alone." 

Sorrow  fixed  the  brow  of  Stanley, 
And  his  cheek  grew  white  with  wo, 

A  s  he  answered — oh,  how  sadly  ! — 
"  Miliia,  this  was  long  ago. 


58  MILNA     GRET. 

Life  is  charmed — is  there  nothing 

For  which  thou  would'st  love  recall— 
Or,  alas,  too  fondly  faithful, 

Hast  thou,  Milna,  buried  all  ? 
Wilt  thou,  when  the  star  of  twilight 

Breaks  in  beauty  through  the  blue, 
Meet  me  here  beneath  the  alders "? — 

I  would  tell  a  story  too." 

So,  from  out  the  pleasant  garden 

Passed  they,  as  the  lingering  mist 
From  the  eastern  hill-tops  lifted, 

Musing  of  the  twilight  tryst. 
Slowly  to  the  sad,  and  gaily 

To  the  gay,  sped  on  the  hours, 
Till  the  bees  went  humming  homeward 

From  the  softly  closing  flowers ; 
Till  the  daylight  waned  and  faded, 

And  the  sun  grew  large  and  set, 
And  the  rooks  in  long  rows  gathered 

Gloomily  on  the  parapet. 
In  the  blue  wake  of  the  twilight 

Brings  the  star  the  trysting  hour — 
On  her  knees  her  white  hands  folded, 

Milna  waits  within  her  bower. 
Scarcely  heeding  how  the  shadows 

Dark  and  darker  round  her  fall — 
Haply  she  but  hears  the  throstle 

Singing  by  the  churchyard  wall ! 


MILNAGRKY.  59 

With  the  dews  the  red  laburnums, 

And  the  golden  rods  were  bent, 
But  no  step  disturbed  the  silence, 

And  the  midnight  came  and  went. 

Stanley,  blue-eyed,  gentle  Stanley, 

If  he  liveth,  none  may  say, 
But  within  the  pleasant  garden 

Never  walked  he  from  that  day. 
In  his  stall  his  black  steed  fasted, 

Drooping  lowly  from  his  pride, 
And  his  lithe  hound  stayed  from  trailing, 

Crouching,  whining,  till  he  died. 
And  the  mournful  tears  of  Milna 

Often  for  lost  Stanley  fell, 
As  in  part  she  guessed  the  story 

That  he  never  came  to  tell. 


THE  MURDERESS. 

ALONG  the  still  cold  plain  o'erhead, 

In  pale  embattled  crowds, 
The  stars  their  tents  of  glory  spread, 

And  camped  among  the  clouds ; 
Cinctured  with  shadows,  like  a  wraith, 

Night  moaned  along  the  lea ; 
Like  the  blue  hungry  eye  of  Death, 

Shone  the  perfidious  sea ; 
The  moon  was  waxen  to  the  wane, 

The  winds  were  wild  and  high, 
And  a  pale  meteor's  golden  mane 

Streamed  from  the  northern  sky. 

Hush  !  did  a  shiver  of  pale  fear 

Along  the  gray  air  run  ? 
Much  I  roisguess  me,  else  anear 

Some  murderous  work  is  done. 
This  way,  I  heard  a  smothered  call, 

If  that  mine  ear  be  true — 
Mother  of  God,  protect  us  all ! 

What  vision  meets  my  view ! 


THE     MURDERESS.  61 

Across  the  black  and  barren  moor, 

Her  dainty  bosom  bare, 
And  white  lips  sobbing  evermore, 

Rides  Eleanor  the  fair. 
So  hath  the  pining  sea-maid  plained 

For  love  of  mortal  lips, 
Riding  the  billows,  silver-reined, 

Hard  by  disastrous  ships. 

Why  covers  she  her  mournful  eyes  ? 

Why  do  her  pulses  cease, 
As  if  she  saw  before  her  rise 

The  ghost  of  murdered  Peace  1 
Her  sunken  cheek  still  keeps  the  wave 

Of  tresses  long  and  bright, 
As  the  dim  hollow  of  the  grave 

Cradles  the  starry  light. 
From  out  her  path  the  ground-bird  drifts 

With  wildly  startled  calls, 
The  moonlight  snake  its  white  fold  lifts 

From  where  her  shadow  falls. 

Ah  me !  that  delicate  hand  of  hers, 

Now  trembling  like  a  reed, 
Like  to  the  ancient  mariner's 

Hath  done  a  hellish  deed  ; 
And  full  of  mercy  were  the  frown 

Which  might  the  power  impart 
To  press  the  eternal  darkness  down 

Against  her  bleeding  heart. 
3* 


62  THE     MURDERESS. 

Oh,  Innocence !  above  thy  fall 

Flow  waves  of  agony 
From  mortals,  to  the  utmost  wall 

Of  dim  infinity. 
Over  thy  dust  the  poet's  fire 

Lies  fadingly  and  wan, 
The  goldenest  chord  of  all  his  lyre 

Is  dumb  when  thou  art  gone. 


THE  CONVICT. 

THE  first  of  the  September  eves 

Sunk  its  red  basement  in  the  sea, 
And  like  swart  reapers,  bearing  sheaves, 

Dim  shadows  thronged  immensity. 
Then  from  his  ancient  kingdom,  Night 

Wooing  the  tender  Twilight,  came, 
And  from  her  tent,  of  soft  blue  light, 

Bore  her  away,  a  bride  of  flame. 

Pushing  aside  her  golden  hair, 

And  listening  to  the  Autumn's  tread, 
Along  the  hill-tops,  bleak  and  bare, 

Went  Summer,  burying  her  dead  ; 
The  frolic  winds,  out-laughing  loud, 

Played  with  the  thistle's  silver  beard, 
And  drifting  seaward  like  a  cloud, 

Slowly  the  wild-birds  disappeared. 

Upon  a  hill  with  mosses  brown, 
Beneath  the  blue  roof  of  the  sky, 

As  the  dim  day  went  sadly  down, 
Stood  all  the  friend  I  had,  and  I — 


64  THE     CONVICT. 

Watching  the  sea-mist  of  the  strand 

Wave  to  and  fro  in  Evening's  breath, 
Like  the  pale  gleaming  of  the  hand 

That  beckons  from  the  shore  of  Death, 
Talking  of  days  of  gladness  flown, 

Of  Sorrow's  great  o'erwhelming  waves, 
Of  friends  loved  well  as  they  were  known, 

Now  sleeping  in  their  voiceless  graves ; 
And  as  our  thoughts  o'erswept  the  past, 

Like  stars  that  through  the  darkness  move, 
Our  hearts  grew  softer,  and  at  last 

We  talked  of  friendship,  talked  of  love. 
Then,  as  the  long  and  level  reach 

Back  to  our  homestead  slow  we  trod, 
We  gave  our  fond  pure  pledges  each, 

Of  truth  unto  ourselves  and  God. 

Forth  to  life's  conflict  and  its  care, 

Doomed  wert  thou,  Oh  my  friend,  to  go, 
Leaving  me  only  hope  and  prayer 

To  shelter  my  poor  heart  from  wo. 
"A  little  year,  and  we  shall  meet!" 

Still  at  my  heart  that  whisper  thrills — 
The  spring-shower  is  not  half  so  sweet, 

Covering  with  violets  all  the  hills. 

Dimly  the  days  sped,  one  by  one, 

Slowly  the  weeks  and  months  went  round, 

Until  again  September's  sun 

Lighted  the  hill  with  moss  embrowned. 


THECONVIOT.  65 

That  night  we  met — my  friend  and  I — 

Not  as  the  last  year  saw  us  part : 
He  as  a  convict  doomed  to  die, 

I  with  a  bleeding,  breaking  heart — 
Not  in  our  homestead,  low  and  old, 

Nor  under  Evening's  roof  of  stars, 
But  where  the  earth  was  damp  and  cold, 

And  the  light  struggled  through  the  bars. 

Others  might  mock  him,  or  disown, 

With  lying  tongue  :  my  place  was  there, 
And  as  I  bore  him  to  the  throne 

Upon  the  pleading  arms  of  prayer, 
He  told  me  how  Temptation's  hand 

Pressed  the  red  wine-cup  to  his  lip, 
Leaving  him  powerless  to  withstand 

As  the  storm  leaves  the  sinking  ship ; 
And  how,  all  blind  to  evil  then, 

Down  from  the  way  of  life  he  trod, 
Sinning  against  his  fellow-men — 

Reviling  the  dear  name  of  God. 


OF  ONE  ASLEEP. 

THE  woods  beneath  the  western  sky- 
Were  reddening  in  the  light, 
As  long  ago  my  friend  and  I 

Went  down  to  meet  the  night. 
Like  yellow  violets  springing  bright 

From  furrows  newly  turned, 
Among  the  nut-brown  clouds  the  light 

Of  sunset  softly  burned  ; 
Then  veiling  up  her  pensive  face 

In  clouds  of  golden  flame, 
The  silent  child  of  the  embrace 

Of  light  and  darkness  came; 
And  when  from  off  the  hills  we  missed 

The  long  and  sloping  bars, 
We  saw  the  tents  of  amethyst 

Unfolded  for   the  stars, 
That  like  a  train  of  glory  fill 

The  reach  of  blue  above, 
And  with  their  barren  beauty  still 

Win  from  us  half  our  love ; 

We  heard  the  wind  beneath  the  frown 
Displacing  twilight's  smile. 


OF     ONE     ASLEEP.  C7 

Laughingly  running  up  and  down 

The  green  hills  all  the  while ; 
We  saw  the  waves'  embracing  fold 

Like  lovers  when  they  meet ; — 
But  oh  !  'twas  naught  my  rhyme  has  told 

Which  made  the  time  so  sweet ; 
Love  to  our  hearts  had  newly  brought 

Sweeter  than  Eden  gleams, 
And  no  dark  underswejl  of  thought 

Troubled  its  sea  of  dreams. 
But  now  as  memory  sadly  stops, 

And  all  our  story  tells, 
Pale  Beauty  from  her  forehead  drops 

The  shining  asphodels. 

Low  down  beneath  an  oaken  roof 

Of  dim  leaves  by  the  sea, 
Where  then  we  lingered,  sorrow-proof- — 

My  gentle  love  and  me — 
While  sunset  softly  lights  the  bower, 

And  wave  embraces  wave, 
The  shadow  of  the  passion  flower 

Lies  darkly  on  his  grave. 
And  musing  of  his  pillow  low, 

His  slumber  deep  and  long, 
My  heart  keeps  heaving  to  and  fro 

Upon  the  waves  of  song. 
No  more  through  sunset's  sinking  fire 

Are  Eden-gleams  descried, 
The  sweetest  chord  of  all  life's  lyre 

Was  shattered  when  he  died. 


OF    ONE     ASLEEP. 


Yet  not  one  memory  would  I  sell, 

However  woful  proved, 
For  all  the  brightest  joys  that  dwell 

In  souls  that  never  loved. 


JESSIE  CARROL. 


AT  her  window,  Jessie  Carrol, 

As  the  twilight  dew  distils, 
Pushes  back  her  heavy  tresses, 

Listening  toward  the  northern  hills. 
"  I  am  happy,  very  happy, 

None  so  much  as  I  am  blest — 
None  of  all  the  many  maidens 

In  the  valley  of  the  West," 
Softly  to  herself  she  whispered  ; 

Paused  she  then  again  to  hear 
If  the  step  of  Allen  Archer, 

That  she  waited  for,  were  near. 
"  Ah,  he  knows  I  k>ve  him  fondly  ! — 

I  have  never  told  him  so ! — 
Heart  of  mine,  be  not  so  heavy, 

He  will  come  to  night,  I  know." 

Brightly  is  the  full  moon  filling 
All  the  withered  woods  with  light, 

"  He  has  not  forgotten  surely — 
It  was  later  yesternight !" 


70  JESSIE     CARROL. 

Shadows  interlock  with  shadows — 

Says  the  maiden,  "  Woe  is  me  !" 
In  the  blue  the  eve-star  trembles 

Like  a  lily  in  the  sea. 
Yet  a  good  hour  later  sounded, — 

But  the  northern  woodlands  sway  ! — 
Quick  a  white  hand  from  her  casement 

Thrust  the  heavy  vines  away. 
Like  the  wings  of  restless  swallows 

That  a  moment  brush  the  dew, 
And  again  are  up  and  upward, 

Till  we  lose  them  in  the  blue, 
Were  the  thoughts  of  Jessie  Carrol 

For  a  moment  dim  with  pain, 
Then  with  pleasant  waves  of  sunshine, 

On  the  hills  of  hope  again. 

"  Selfish  am  I,  weak  and  selfish," 

Said  she,  "  thus  to  sit  and  sigh ; 
Other  friends  and  other  pleasures 

Claim  his  leisure  well  as  I. 
Haply,  care  or  bitter  sorrow 

'Tis  that  keeps  him  from  my  side, 
Else  he  surely  would  have  hasted 

Hither  at  the  twilight  tide. 
Yet  sometimes  I  can  but  marvel 

That  his  lips  have  never  said, 
When  we  talked  about  the  future, 

Then,  or  then,  we  shall  be  wed ! — 
Much  I  fear  me  that  my  nature 

Cannot  measure  half  his  pride, 


JESSIE     CARKOL.  71 

And  perchance  he  would  not  wed  me 

Though  I  pined  of  love  and  died. 
To  the  aims  of  his  ambition 

I  would  bring  nor  wealth  nor  fame. 
Well,  there  is  a  quiet  valley 

Where  we  both  shall  sleep  the  same  !" 
So,  more  eves  than  I  can  number, 

Now  despairing,  and  now  blest, 
Watched  the  gentle  Jessie  Carrol, 

From  the  Valley  of  the  West. 

ii. 

Down  along  the  dismal  woodland 

Blew  October's  yellow  leaves, 

And  the  day  had  waned  and  faded, 

To  the  saddest  of  all  eves. 

\ 

Poison  rods  of  scarlet  berries 

Still  were  standing  here  and  there, 
But  the  clover  blooms  were  faded, 

And  the  orchard  bows  were  bare. 
From  the  stubble-fields  the  cattle 

Winding  homeward,  playful,  slow, 
With  their  slender  horns  of  silver 

Pushed  each  other  to  and  fro. 
Suddenly  the  hound  up-springing 

From  his  sheltering  kennel,  whined, 
As  the  voice  of  Jessie  Carrol 

Backward  drifted  on  the  wind — 
Backward  drifted  from  a  pathway 

Sloping  down  the  upland  wild, 


72  JESSIECARKOL. 

Where  she  walked  with  Allen  Archer, 

Light  of  spirit  as  a  child ! 
All  her  young  heart  wild  with  rapture 

And  the  bliss  that  made  it  beat — 
Not  the  golden  wells  of  Hybla 

Held  a  treasure  half  so  sweet ! 
But  as  oft  the  shifting  rose-cloud, 

In  the  sunset  light  that- lies, 
Mournful  makes  us,  feeling  only 

How  much  farther  are  the  skies, — 
So  the  mantling  of  her  blushes, 

And  the  trembling  of  her  heart, 
'Neath  his  steadfast  eyes  but  made  her 

Feel  how  far  they  were  apart. 

"Allan,"  said  she,  "I  will  tell  you 

Of  a  vision  that  I  had — 
All  the  livelong  night  I  dreamed  it, 

And  it  made  me  very  sad. 
We  were  walking  slowly  seaward, 

In  the  twilight — you  and  I — 
Through  a  break  of  clearest  azure 

Shone  the  moon — as  now — on  high  ; 
Though  I  nothing  said  to  vex  you, 

O'er  your  forehead  came  a  frown, 
And  I  strove,  but  could  not  soothe  you- 

Something  kept  my  full  heart  down ; 
When,  before  us,  stood  a  lady 

In  the  moonlight's  pearly  beam, 
Very  tall  and  proud  and  stately — 

(Allan,  this  was  in  my  dream  ! — ) 


JESSIE     CARROL.  73 

Looking  down,  I  thought,  upon  me, 

Half  in  pity,  half  in  scorn, 
Till  my  soul  grew  sick  with  wishing 

That  I  never  had  been  born. 
'  Cover  me  from  wo  and  madness !' 

Cried  I  to  the  ocean  flood, 
As  she  locked  her  milk-white  fingers 

In  between  us  where  we  stood, — 
All  her  flood  of  midnight  tresses 

Softly  gathered  from  their  flow, 
By  her  crown  of  bridal  beauty, 

Paler  than  the  winter  snow. 
Striking  then  my  hands  together, 

O'er  the  tumult  of  my  breast, — 
All  the  beauty  waned  and  faded 

From  the  Valley  of  the  West  1" 

In  the  beard  of  Allan  Archer 

Twisted  then  his  fingers  white, 
As  he  said,  "  My  gentle  Jessie, 

You  must  not  be  sad  to-night ; 
You  must  not  be  sad,  my  Jessie, 

You  are  over  kind  and  good, 
And  I  fain  would  make  you  happy, 

Very  happy — if  I  could !" 
Oft  he  kissed  her  cheek  and  forehead, 

Called  her  darling  oft,  but  said, 
Never,  that  he  loved  her  fondly, 

Or  that  ever  they  should  wed  ; 
But  that  he  was  grieved  that  shadows 

Should  have  chilled  so  dear  a  heart  j 


74  JESSIE      CARROL. 

That  the  time,  foretold  so  often, 

Then  was  come — and  they  must  part ! 
Shook  her  bosom  then  with  passion, 

Hot  her  forehead  burned  with  pain, 
But  her  lips  said  only,  "  Allan, 

Will  you  ever  come  again  ?" 
And  he  answered,  lightly  dallying 

With  her  tresses  all  the  while, 
Life  had  not  a  star  to  guide  him 

Like  the  beauty  of  her  smile  ; 
And  that  when  the  corn  was  ripened 

And  the  vintage  harvest  prest, 
She  would  see  him  home  returning 

To  the  Valley  of  the  West. 

When  the  moon  had  veiled  her  splendor, 

And  went  lessening  down  the  blue, 
And  along  the  eastern  hill-tops 

Burned  the  morning  in  the  dew, 
They  had  parted — each  one  feeling 

That  their  lives  had  separate  ends ; 
They  had  parted — neither  happy — 

Less  than  lovers — more  than  friends. 
For  as  Jessie  mused  in  silence, 

She  remembered  that  he  said, 
Never,  that  he  loved  her  fondly, 

Or  that  ever  they  should  wed. 

Twas  full  many  a  nameless  meaning 
My  poor  words  can  never  say, 

Felt  without  the  need  of  utterance, 
That  had  won  her  heart  away. 


JESSIECAKEOL.  75 

O  !  the  days  were  weary  !  weary  ! 

And  the  eves  were  dull  and  long, 
With  the  cricket's  chirp  of  sorrow, 

And  the  owlet's  mournful  song. 
Out  of  slumber  oft  she  started 

In  the  still  and  lonesome  nights, 
Hearing  but  the  traveller's  footstep 

Hurrying  toward  the  village  lights. 

So,  moaned  by  the  dreary  winter — 

All  her  household  tasks  fulfilled — 
Till  beneath  the  last  year's  rafters 

Came  the  swallows  back  to  build. 
Meadow-pinks,  in  flakes  of  crimson, 

Through  the  pleasant  valleys  lay, 
And  again  were  oxen  ploughing 

Up  and  down  the  hills  all  day. 
Thus  the  dim  days  dawned  and  faded 

To  the  maid,  forsaken,  lorn, 
Till  the  freshening  breeze  of  summer 

Shook  the  tassels  of  the  corn. 
Ever  now  within  her  chamber 

All  night  long  the  lamp-light  shines, 
But  no  white  hand  from  her  casement 

Pushes  back  the  heavy  vines. 
On  her  cheek  a  fire  was  feeding, 

And  her  hand  transparent  grew — 
Ah,  the  faithless  Allen  Archer! 

More  than  she  had  dreamed  was  true. 

No  complaint  was  ever  uttered, 
Only  to  herself  she  sighed, — 


76  JESSIE     CARROL. 

As  she  read  of  wretched  poets 

Who  had  pined  of  love  and  died. 
Once  she  crushed  the  sudden  crying 

From  her  trembling  lips  away, 
When  they  said  the  vintage  harvest 

Had  been  gathered  in  that  day. 
Often,  when  they  kissed  her,  smiled  she, 

Saying  that  it  soothed  her  pain, 
And  that  they  must  not  be  saddened — 

She  would  soon  be  well  again ! 
Thus  nor  hoping  nor  yet  fearing, 

Meekly  bore  she  all  her  pain, 
Till  the  red  leaves  of  the  autumn 

Withered  from  the  woods  again  ; 
Till  the  bird  had  hushed  its  singing 

In  the  silvery  sycamore, 
And  the  nest  was  left  unsheltered 

In  the  lilac  by  the  door ; 
Saying,  still,  that  she  was  happy — 

None  so  much  as  she  was  blest — 
None  of  all  the  many  maidens 

In  the  valley  of  the  West. 

ra. 

Down  the  heath  and  o'er  the  moorland 
Blows  the  wild  gust  high  and  higher, 

Suddenly  the  maiden  pauses 
Spinning  at  the  cabin  fire, 

And  out  from  her  taper  fingers 
Falls  away  the  flaxen  thread, 


JESSIE     CARROL.  77 

As  some  neighbor  entering,  whispers, 

"  Jessie  Carrol  lieth  dead." 
Then,  as  pressing  close  her  forehead 

To  the  window-pane,  she  sees 
Two  stout  men  together  digging 

Underneath  the  church-yard  trees ; 
And  she  asks  in  kindest  accents, 

"  Was  she  happy  when  she  died  ?n 
Sobbing  all  the  while  to  see  them 

Void  the  heavy  eapth  aside  ; 
Or,  upon  their  mattocks  leaning, 

Through  their  fingers  numb  to  blow, 
For  the  wintry  air  is  chilly, 

And  the  grave-mounds  white  with  snow. 
And  the  neighbor  answers  softly, 

"  Do  not,  dear  one,  do  not  cry ; 
At  the  break  of  day  she  asked  us 

If  we  thought  that  she  must  die ; 
And  when  I  had  told  her,  sadly, 

That  I  feared  it  would  be  so, 
Smiled  she,  saying,  'Twill  be  weary 

Digging  in  the  churchyard  snow  !' 
*  Earth,'  I  said,  "  was  very  dreary — 

That  its  paths  at  best  were  rough ; 
And  she  whispered,  she  was  ready, 

That  her  life  was  long  enough. 
So  she  lay  serene  and  silent, 

Till  the  wind,  that  wildly  drove, 
Soothed  her  from  her  mortal  sorrow, 

Like  the  lullaby  of  love." 
4 


Thus  they  talked,  while  one  that  loved  her 
Smoothed  her  tresses  dark  and  long, 

Wrapped  her  white  shroud  down,  and  simply 
Wove  her  sorrow  to  this  song : 

IV. 

Sweetly  sleeps  she :  pain  and  passion 

Burn  no  longer  on  her  brow — 
Weary  watchers,  ye  may  leave  her — 

She  no  more  will  need  you  now  ! 
While  the  wild  spring  bloomed  and  faded, 

Till  the  autumn  came  and  passed, 
Calmly,  patiently,  she  waited — 

Rest  has  come  to  her  at  last ! 
Never  have  the  blessed  angels, 

As  they  walked  with  her  apart, 
Kept  pale  Sorrow's  battling  armies 

Half  so  softly  from  her  heart. 
Therefore,  think  not,  ye  that  loved  her, 

Of  the  pallor  hushed  and  dread, 
Where  the  winds,  like  heavy  mourners, 

Cry  about  her  lonesome  bed, 
But  of  white  hands  softly  reaching 

As  the  shadow  o'er  her  fell, 
Downward  from  the  golden  bastion 

Of  the  eternal  citadel. 


DISSATISFIED. 

FOR  me,  in  all  life's  desert  sands 

No  well  is  made,  no  tent  is  spread ; 
Even  the  cool  dews  of  Mercy's  hands, 

Like  fires  have  fallen  upon  my  head; 
For  I  have  been  with  Fate  at  war, 

And  shall  be  so  till  life  shall  cease, 
Worshipping  the  unattained  and  far, 

And  there,  and  only  there,  at  peace. 
On  every  life,  at  times,  save  mine, 

Beauty  has  gathered  like  a  crown — 
Oh  desolate,  reft,  it  must  be  thine 

When  all  thy  burdens  are  laid  down ! 

Night,  night !  make  gentle  the  embrace, 

Which  still  the  light  of  joyance  bars, 
While  through  the  cloudy  realms  I  trace 

The  eternal  wanderings  of  the  stars. 
Light,  lightly,  thou  of  murmurous  lip, 

Twine  round  my  neck  thy  breezy  arm- 
Hope,  like  a  frail  dismasted  ship, 

Drifts  at  the  mercy  of  the  storm. 
The  radiance  of  my  mortal  star 

Is  crossed  with  signs  of  wo  to  me ; 
And  all  my  thoughts  and  wishes  are 

Pale  wanderers  toward  eternity. 


80  DISSATISFIED. 

Stricken,  riven  helplessly  apart 

From  all  that  blest  the  path  I  trod  ; 
Oh  tempt  me,  tempt  me  not,  my  heart, 

To  arraign  the  goodness  of  my  God ; 
For  suffering  hath  been  made  sublime, 

And  souls  that  lived  and  died  alone, 
Have  left  an  echo  for  all  time, 

As  they  went  wailing  to  the  throne. 

There  have  been  moments  when  I  dared 

Believe  life's  mystery  a  breath, 
And  deem  Faith's  milky  bosom  bared 

To  the  betraying  arms  of  Death  j 
For  the  immortal  life  but  mocks 

The  soul  that  feels  its  ruin  dire, 
And  like  a  tortured  demon  rocks 

Upon  the  cradling  waves  of  fire. 
But  when,  in  half  reluctant  prayer, 

We  raise  our  blindly  selfish  eyes, 
Peace,  clasping  close  the  cross,  is  there, 

And  singing  songs  of  Paradise. 


AGATHA  TO  HAROLD. 

COME  there  ever  memories,  Harold, 

Like  a  half  remembered  song 
From  the  time  of  gladness  vanished 

Down  the  distance,  oh,  so  long ! 
Come  they  to  me — not  in  sadness, 

For  they  strike  into  my  soul, 
As  the  sharp  axe  of  the  woodsman 

Strikes  the  dead  and  sapless  bole. 

Just  across  the  orchard  hill-top, 

Through  the  branches  gray  and  bare, 
We  can  see  the  village  church-yard — 

I  shall  not  be  lonesome  there. 
When  the  cold  wet  leaves  are  falling 

On  the  turfless  mound  below, 
You  will  sometimes  think  about  me, 

You  will  love  me  then,  I  know. 
In  the  window  of  my  chamber 

Is  a  plant  with  pale  blooms  crowned — 
If  the  sun  shines  warm  to-morrow, 

In  that  quiet  church-yard  ground 
I  will  set  it ;  and  at  noontimes, 

When  the  school-girls  thither  wend, 


82  AGATHA     TO     HAROLD. 

They  '11  see  it  blossom  by  my  grave, 

And  think  I  had  a  friend. 
I  cannot  bear  the  nameless  spot 

Should  be  with  weeds  o'ergrown, 
To  tell  upon  death's  stormy  wave 

I  drifted  out  alone. 

Think'st  thou  ever,  oh  my  Harold, 

Of  that  blessed  eventide 
When  our  footsteps,  thither  straying, 

Turned  the  golden  light  aside  ? 
When  the  skies  of  June  above  us 

Hung  so  lovingly  and  blue, 
And  the  white  mists  in  the  meadows 

Seemed  like  fleeces  full  of  dew — 
While  the  stars  along  the  heavens 

In  illumined  furrows  lay 
As  if  some  descending  angel 

Pushed  them  from  his  path  away, 
And  the  west  was  faintly  burning, 

Where  the  cloudy  day  was  set, 
Like  a  blushing  press  of  kisses — 

Ah,  thou  never  canst  forget ! 

"  Thou  art  young"  thou  saidst,  "  thy  future 

All  in  sunlight  seems  to  shine — 
Art  content  to  crown  thy  maytime 

Out  of  autumn  love  like  mine  1 
Couldst  thou  see  my  locks  a  lading 

With  no  sorrow  and  no  fears  ? — 
For  thou  know'st  I  stand  in  shadows 

Deep  to  almost  twice  thy  years." 


AaATHAfOHAROLB.  83 

In  that  time  my  life-blood  mounted 

From  my  bosom  to  my  brow, 
And  I  answered  simply,  truly — 

I  was  younger  then  than  now-^ 
"  Were  it  strange  if  that  a  daisy 

Sheltered  from  the  tempest  stroke, 
Bloomed  contented  in  the  shadow 

Of  the  overarching  oak  ?" 

When  the  sun  had  like  a  herdsman 

Clipt  the  misty  waves  of  morn, 
By  the  breezes  driven  seaward 

Like  a  flock  of  lambs  new-shorn  ; 
Thou  hadst  left  me,  and  oh,  Harold, 

Half  in  gladness,  half  in  tears, 
I  was  gazing  down  the  future 

O'er  the  lapses  of  the  years ; 
To  what  time  the  clouds  about  me — 

All  my  night  of  sorrow  done 
Should  blow  out  their  crimson  linings 

O'er  the  rising  of  love's  sun. 
And  I  said  in  exultation, 

"  Not  the  bright  ones  in  the  sky, 
Then  shall  know  a  deeper  pleasure 

Than,  my  Harold,  thou  and  I." 

Thrice  the  scattered  seed  had  sprouted 

As  the  spring  thaw  reappeared, 
And  the  winter  frosts  had  grizzled 

Thrice  the  autumn's  yellow  beard ; 
When  that  lovely  day  of  promise 

Darkened  with  a  dread  eclipse, 


84  AGATHA     TO     HAROLD. 

And  my  heart's  long  clasped  joyance 

Died  in  moans  upon  my  lips. 
Silent,  saw  I  other  maidens 

To  a  thousand  pleasures  wed — 
"  Save  me  from  the  past,  good  angel,"- 

This  was  all  the  prayer  I  said. 
Sometimes  they  would  smile  upon  me 

As  their  gay  troops  passed  me  by 
Saying  softly  to  each  other, 

How  is  she  content  to  die  ? 

Oh,  they  little  guess  the  barren 

Wastes  on  which  my  visions  go, 
And  the  conflicts  fierce  but  silent 

That  at  last  have  made  me  so. 
Shall  the  bright-winged  bird  be  netted 

Singing  in  the  open  fields, 
And  not  struggle  with  the  fowler, 

Long  and  vainly  ere  it  yields  ? 
But  the  days  of  my  life's  pilgrimage 

Are  wearing  down  to  hours, 
My  burning  brow  will  cool  no  more 

In  summer's  lap  of  flowers. 
And  from  dying  hands  I  send  thee 

My  forgiveness  full  and  free, 
For  the  fount  of  grief  struck  open 

In  my  young  glad  heart  by  thee  ; 
And  may  there  be  still  some  healing 

For  all  pains  you  ever  know, 
In  this  latest  chrism  I  send  thee 

From  the  fountain  of  my  wo. 


THE  SPIRIT-HAUNTED. 

O'ER  the  dark  woods,  surging,  solemn, 

Hung  the  new  moon's  silver  ring  ; 
And  in  white  and  naked  beauty, 

Out  from  Twilight's  luminous  wing, 
Peered  the  first  star  of  the  eve ; — 
'Twas  the  time  when  poets  weave 
Radiant  songs  of  love's  sweet  passion, 

In  the  loom  of  thought  sublime, 
And  with  throbbing,  quick  pulsations 

Beat  the  golden  web  of  rhyme. 

On  a  hillside  wide  and  lonely, 

Bending  toward  the  fearful  wave, 
Whose  cold  billows  still  are  breaking 

Through  the  still  door  of  the  grave, 
Where  the  lip  from  love  is  bound, 
And  the  forehead  napkin-crowned, — 
On  a  hill-side,  where  like  ruins 

Slanted  columns  of  pale  fire, 
And  the  mist  from  off  life's  river 

Quivered  like  a  glittering  wire, 
O'er  the  white  arm  of  some  maid 
Muffled  in  the  folding  shade, — 
4* 


86  THE     SPIRIT     HAUNTED. 

Once,  ah  me !  I  once  beheld  him 

Whom  no  mortal  love  could  bind, 
From  a  path  of  desolate  grandeur 

Beating  back  the  chilling  wind ; 
Sinking,  as  he  onward  prest, 
Death's  sharp  arrow  in  his  breast. 
In  the  leash  of  an  enchantment 

Followed  his  black  spaniel  ghoul, 
Cowering  toward  the  rocky  kennels 

With  a  wailing,  wistful  howl, 
While  his  hunger-glittering  eyes 
Burned  like  fire  that  never  dies. 

Into  silence  his  pale  fingers 

Crushed  the  sweet  chords  of  his  lyre, 
Like  a  phantom-hand  caressing 

Some  lost  meteor's  mane  of  fire  ; 
While  his  heart  made  vocal  Night, 
Knocking  at  the  gates  of  Light. 
On  a  dream  of  awful  splendor 

His  abraded  soul  was  stretched, 
And  across  the  heart's  pale  ruins 

Winged  imaginations  reached 
O'er  the  glory  and  the  gloom 
Of  life's  opening  gate,  the  tomb. 

As  the  poor  hind,  hunted,  panting, 
On  the  weary  chase  for  hours, 

In  some  wilderness  of  beauty 

Winds  its  silver  horns  with  flowers, 

Gathered  he  deep  peace  unsought 

In  the  glorious  realms  of  thought. 


THE     SPIRIT     HAUNTED.  87 

In  a  tower,  shadow-laden, 

With  a  casement  high  and  dim, 
Years  agone  there  dwelt  a  maiden, 

Loving  and  beloved  by  him. 
But  while  rifling  Hybla's  bees 
A  bold  masker  crossed  the  seas. 

Then — her  bosom  softly  trembling 

Like  a  star  in  morning's  light — 
Faithless  to  her  mortal  lover 

Fled  she  forth  into  the  night, — 
A  great  feast  for  her  was  spread 
In  the  Kingdom  overhead. 
Wo,  oh  wo  !  for  the  abandoned, 

Dim  his  mortal  steps  must  be, 
Death's  high  priest  his  soul  has  wedded 

Unto  immortality  ! — 
Twilight's  golden  fall,  or  morn, 
Finds  him,  leaves  him,  weary,  lorn. 

Weary,  lorn,  I  once  beheld  him, 

With  his  wild  eyes  full  of  light, 
Under  midnight's  roof  of  planets 

Feeding  with  his  smile  the  night, 
As  each  vision,  fancy -wooed, 
Faded  back  to  solitude. 
Sometimes  by  the  lonely  sea  side, 

Sometimes  in  the  wilderness, 
Half  his  rapture-shaken  bosom 

Feels  a  white  arm  gently  press — 
Vain,  'tis  vain  ! — 
Round  him  darkness  aches  again. 


88  THE     SPIRIT     HAUNTED. 

In  her  cave  lay  Silence,  hungry 

For  the  beauty  of  his  song  ; 
Echoes,  locked  from  mortal  waking, 

Trembled  as  he  passed  along, 
And  for  love  of  him  pale  maids 
Leaned  like  lilies  from  the  shades. 
But  the  locks  of  love  unwinding 

From  his  bosom  as  he  might, 
Buried  he  his  soul  of  sorrow 

In  the  cloud-dissolving  light 
Of  the  spirit  peopled  shore 
Ever,  ever,  evermore. 


WURTHA. 

THROUGH  the  autumn's  mists  so  red 
Shot  the  slim  and  golden  stocks 

Of  the  ripe  corn  ;  Wurtha  said, 
"  Let  us  cut  them  for  our  flocks." 

Answered  I,  "  When  morning  leaves 
Her  bright  footprints  on  the  sea, 

As  I  cut  and  bind  the  sheaves, 
Wurtha,  thou  shalt  glean  for  me." 

"  Nay,  the  full  moon  shines  so  bright 

All  along  the  vale  below, 
I  could  count  our  flocks  to-night ; 

Haco,  let  us  rise  and  go. 
For  when  bright  the  risen  morn 

Leaves  her  footprints  on  the  sea, 
Thou  may'st  cut  and  bind  the  corn, 

But  I  cannot  glean  for  thee." 

And  as  I  my  reed  so  light 

Blowing,  sat,  her  fears  to  calm, 

Said  she,  "  Haco,  yesternight 
In  my  dream  I  missed  a  lamb  ; 


90  WURTHA. 

And  as  down  the  misty  vale 

Went  I  pining  for  the  lost, 
Something  shadowy  and  pale, 

And  phantom-like,  my  pathway  crossed, 
Saying,  "  In  a  chilly  bed, 

Low  and  dark,  but  full  of  peace, 
For  your  coming,  softly  spread, 

Is  the  dead  lamb's  snowy  fleece." 

Passed  the  sweetest  of  all  eves — 

Morn  was  breaking,  for  our  flocks : 
"  Let  us  go  and  bind  to  sheaves, 

All  the  slim  and  golden  stocks ; 
Wake,  my  Wurtha,  wake" — but  still 

Were  her  lips  as  still  could  be, 
And  her  folded  hands  too  chill 

Ever  more  to  glean  for  me. 


MADELA. 

"  OH,  my  dear  one !  oh,  my  lover ! 

Comes  no  faintest  sound  to  you, 
As  Icall  your  sweet  words  over, 

All  the  weary  night-time  through ! 
Drearily  the  rain  keeps  falling — 

I  can  hear  it  on  the  pane  ; 
Oh,  he  cannot  hear  my  calling — 

He  will  never  come  again  !" 
So  a  pale  one,  lowly  lying 

On  her  sick  bed,  often  cried — 
"  Come,  my  dear  one,  I  am  dying !" 

But  no  lover's  voice  replied. 

"  When  the  morning-light  is  shining 

Over  all  the  eastern  hills, 
Thou,  whose  heart  is  still  divining 

Every  wish  in  mine  that  thrills — 
If  he  come,  and  I  am  dying, 

If  my  hands  be  cold  as  clay, 
And  my  lips  make  no  replying 

To  the  wild  words  he  will  say, 
As  he  fondly  bends  above  me, 

Just  as  you  are  bending  now, 
Saying  how  he  used  to  love  me, 

Pressing  kisses  on  my  brow — 


92  M  A  D  E  L  A  . 

Take  this  ringlet  ere  from  twining 

Dampened  in  that  dew  so  near  ; 
He  has  often  praised  its  shining — 

Will  he  when  I  cannot  hear  ? 
Give  it  softly  to  his  keeping, 

Saying,  as  1  would  have  said, 
'  Go  not  through  the  world  a-weeping 

For  the  dear  one  who  is  dead ;' 
And,  as  you  the  shroud  upgather, 

That  shall  hide  me  from  his  eyes, 
Tell  him  of  the  pitying  Father — 

Of  the  love  that  never  dies." 

Through  the  eastern  clouds,  the  amber, 

Burning,  tells  the  night-time  o'er  : 
Watchers,  you  may  leave  her  chamber — 

She  hath  need  of  you  no  more ! 
Is't  the  white  hand  of  her  lover 

Puts  her  curtain's  fold  away  ? 
Is  it  he  that  bends  above  her, 

Saying,  "  Dear  one,  wake,  'tis  day !" 
-    No ;  the  wind,  despite  Death's  warning, 

'T  is,  that  in  her  curtain  stirs, 
And  the  blue  eyes  are  the  morning's, 

That  are  bending  down  to  her's. 
Lay  the  hands,  for  love's  sake  lifted 

Oft  in  prayer,  together  bound, 
While  the  unheeded  ringlet  drifted 

Lightly,  brightly,  to  the  ground. 


THE  SHEPHERDESS. 

SAT  we  on  the  mossy  rocks 

In  the  twilight,  long  ago, 
I  and  Ulna  keeping  flocks — 

Flocks  with  fleeces  white  as  snow. 
Beauty  smiled  along  the  sky  ; 

Beauty  shone  along  the  sea ; 
"  Ulna,  Ulna,"  whispered  I, 

This  is  all  for  me  and  thee !" 

Brushing  back  my  heavy  locks, 

Said  he,  not,  alas !  in  glee, 
"  Art  content  in  keeping  flocks 

With  a  shepherd  boy  like  me  ?" — 
Shone  the  moon  so  softly  white 

Down  upon  the  mossy  rocks, 
Covering  sweetly  with  her  light 

Me  and  Ulna,  and  our  flocks. 

Running  wild  about  our  feet 

Were  the  blushing  summer  flowers — • 
"  Ulna,"  said  I,  "  what  is  sweet 

In  this  world  that  is  not  ours?" 


94  THE     SHEPHERDESS. 

Thrice  he  kissed  my  cheek,  and  sighed, 
These  are  dreary  rocks  and  cold — 

Oh,  the  world  is  very  wide, 
And  I  weary  of  my  fold ! 

Now  a  thousand  oxen  stray 

That  are  Ulna's,  down  the  moor,  % 
And  great  ships  their  anchors  weigh, 

Freighted  with  his  priceless  ore. 
But  my  tears  will  sometimes  flow, 

Thinking  of  the  mossy  rocks 
Where  we  sat,  so  long  ago, 

I  and  Ulna,  keeping  flocks. 


THE  RECLAIMING  OF  THE  ANGEL. 

OH  smiling  land  of  the  sunset, 

How  my  heart  to  thy  beauty  thrills — 
Veiled  dimly  to-day  with  the  shadow 

Of  the  greenest  of  all  thy  hills ! 
Where  daisies  lean  to  the  sunshine, 

And  the  winds  a  plowing  go, 
And  break  into  shining  furrows 

The  mists  in  the  vale  below; 
Where  the  willows  hang  out  their  tassels, 

With  the  dews  all  white  and  cold, 
Strung  over  their  wands  so  limber, 

Like  pearls  upon  chords  of  gold ; 
Where  in  milky  hedges  of  hawthorn 

The  red-winged  thrushes  sing, 
And  the  wild  vine,  bright  and  flaunting, 

Twines  many  a  scarlet  ring ; 
Where,  under  the  ripened  billows 

Of  the  silver-flowing  rye, 
We  ran  in  and  out  with  the  zephyrs — 

My  sunny-haired  brother  and  I. 

Oh,  when  the  green  kirtle  of  May  time, 
Again  over  the  hill-tops  is  blown, 


96          THE     RECLAIMING     OF     THE     ANGEL. 

I  shall  walk  the  wild  paths  of  the  forest 

And  climb  the  steep  headlands  alone — 
Pausing  not  where  the  slopes  of  the  meadows 

Are  yellow  with  cowslip  beds, 
Nor  where,  by  the  wall  of  the  garden, 

The  hollyhocks  lift  their  bright  heads. 
In  hollows  that  dimple  the  hill-sides, 

Our  feet  till  the  sunset  had  been, 
Where  pinks  with  their  spikes  of  red  blossoms, 

Hedged  beds  of  blue  violets  in, 
While  to  the  warm  lip  of  the  sunbeam 

The  cheek  of  the  blush  rose  inclined, 
And  the  pansy's  white  bosom  was  flushed  with 

The  murmurous  love  of  the  wind. 

But  when  'neath  the  heavy  tresses 

That  swept  o'er  the  dying  day, 
The  star  of  the  eve  like  a  lover 

Was  hiding  his  blushes  away, 
As  we  came  to  a  mournful  river 

That  flowed  to  a  lovely  shore, 
"  Oh,  sister,"  he  said,  "  I  am  weary — 

I  cannot  go  back  any  more !" 
And  seeing  that  round  about  him 

The  wings  of  the  angels  shone — 
I  parted  the  locks  from  his  forehead 

And%kissed  him  and  left  him  alone. 
But  a  shadow  comes  over  my  spirit 

Whenever  I  think  of  the  hours 
I  trusted  his  feet  to  the  pathway 

That  winds  through  eternity's  flowers. 


YOUNG  LOVE. 

LIFE  hath  its  memories  lovely, 

That  over  the  heart  are  blown, 
As  over  the  face  of  the  Autumn 

The  light  of  the  summer  flown ; 
Rising  out  of  the  mist  so  chilling, 

That  oft  life's  sky  enshrouds, 
Like  a  new  moon  sweetly  filling 

Among  the  twilight  clouds. 

And  among  them  comes,  how  often, 

Young  love's  unresting  wraith, 
To  lift  lost  hope  out  of  ruins 

To  the  gladness  of  perfect  faith ; 
Drifting  out  of  the  past  as  lightly 

As  winds  of  the  May -time  flow : 
And  lifting  the  shadows  brightly, 

As  the  daffodil  lifts  the  snow. 

For  even  life's  withered  winter, 
With  all  its  fearful  power, 

Blights  not  from  immortal  beauty 
The  heart's  bright  passion-flower. 


98  YOUNG     LOVE. 

I  know  I  shall  be  benighted 
Full  soon  in  a  valley  low, 

But  beyond  is  the  love  that  lighted 
The  beautiful  long  ago. 


THE  BETROTHED. 

I  HAVE  acted  as  they  bid  me, 

He  said  that  he  was  bless'd, 
And  the  sweet  seal  of  betrothal 

On  my  forehead  has  been  press'd  ; 
But  my  heart  gave  back  no  echo 

To  the  rapture  of  his  bliss, 
And  the  hand  he  clasped  so  fondly 

Was  less  tremulous  than  his. 

They  praise  his  lordly  beauty, 

And  I  know  that  he  is  fair — 
Oh,  I  always  loved  the  color 

Of  his  sunny  eyes  and  hair ; 
And  though  my  bosom  may  have  held 

A  happier  heart  than  now, 
I  have  told  him  that  I  love  him, 

And  I  cannot  break  the  vow. 

He  called  me  the  fair  lady 

Of  a  castle  o'er  the  seas, 
And  I  thought  about  a  cottage 

Nestled  down  among  the  trees  ; 


100  THE     BETROTHED. 

And  when  my  cheek  beneath  his  lip 
Blushed  not  nor  turned  aside, 

I  thought  how  once  a  lighter  kiss 
Had  left  it  crimson-died. 

What  care  I  for  the  breathing 

Of  wind-harps  among  the  vines  ? 
I  better  love  the  swinging 

Of  the  sleepy  mountain  pines, 
And  to  track  the  timid  rabbit 

In  the  snow  shower  as  I  list, 
Than  to  ride  his  coal-black  hunter 

With  the  hawk  upon  my  wrist.  ' 

Fain  would  I  leave  the  grandeur 

Of  the  oaken-shadowed  lawns, 
And  the  dimly  stretching  forest, 

Where  the  red  roe  leads  her  fawns, 
To  gather  the  blue  thistle 

And  the  fennel's  yellow  bloom, 
Where  frowning  turrets  cumber  not 

The  path  with  gorgeous  gloom. 

Let  them  wreathe  the  bridal  roses 

With  my  tresses  as  they  may — 
There  are  phantoms  in  my  bosom. 

That  I  cannot  keep  away  ; 
To  my  heart,  as  to  a  banquet, 

They  are  crowding  pale  and  dread, 
But  I  told  him  that  I  loved  him, 

And  it  cannot  be  unsaid. 


GOING  TO  SLEEP. 

Now  put  the  waxen  candle  by, 

Or  shade  the  light  away, 
And  tell  me  if  you  think  she'll  die 

Before  another  day. 
She  asked  me  but  an  hour  ago, 

What  time  the  moon  would  rise, 
And  when  I  told  her,  she  replied, 

"  How  fair  'twill  make  the  skies." 
Then  came  a  smile  across  her  face, 

And  though  her  lips  were  dumb 
I  think  she  only  wished  to  live 

Until  that  hour  were  come. 
And  folding  her  transparent  hands 

Together  on  her  breast, 
She  fell  in  such  a  tranquil  sleep 

As  scarce  seems  breathing  rest. 

Was  that  the  third  stroke  of  the  clock ; 

The  hour  is  almost  told. — 
Above  yon  bare  and  jagged  rock 

Should  shine  the  disk  of  gold. 
5 


102  GOING     TO     SLEEP. 

Tis  coming  up !  the  glow  I  see 

Burn  faint  along  the  blue ; 
How  soft  her  sleep  is !  shall  I  call, 

That  she  may  see  it  too  ? 
Nay,  friend,  she  would  not  see  the  light, 

Though  called  you  ne'er  so  loud, 
So  bring  of  linen,  dainty  white, 

The  measure  of  the  shroud. 
The  drowsy  sexton  may  not  wake, 

He  must  be  called  betimes, 
Twill  take  him  all  the  day  to  make 

Her  grave  beneath  the  limes ; 
For  when  our  little  Ellie  died, 

The  days  were,  oh,  so  long; 
And  what  with  telling  ghostly  tales, 

And  humming  scraps  of  song, 
To  school-boys  gathered  curiously 

About  the  bed  so  chill, 
I  heard  him  digging  till  the  sun 

Was  down  behind  the  hill. 

Oh,  do  not  weep  my  friend,  I  pray, 
These  beams  that  round  her  creep, 

Keep  all  the  evil  things  away 
That  troubled  once  her  sleep. 


OF  ONE  DYING. 

IK  the  blue  middle  heavens  of  June 

The  sun  was  burning  bright, 
What  time  we  parted — now !  alas, 

Tis  winter-time  and  night. 
The  swart  November  long  ago, 

With  troops  of  gloomy  hours, 
Went  folding  the  October's  tents 

Of  misty  gold,  like  flowers. 

The  wind  hangs  moaning  on  the  pane, 

The  cricket  tries  to  sing, 
And  a  voice  tells  me  all  the  while, 

It  never  will  be  spring ; 
It  never  will  be  spring  to  her, 

For  in  the  west  wind's  flow, 
I  hear  a  sound  that  seems  to  me 

Like  digging  in  the  snow. 

She  will  not  have  to  lay  away 
The  baby  from  her  knees — 

The  wild  birds  sung  his  lullaby 
Last  summer  in  the  trees ; 


101  OF     ONE     DYING. 

The  cedars  and  the  cypresses, 
That  in  the  churchyard  grow — 

But  little  Alice  will  be  left — 
How  shall  we  make  her  know, 

When  she  shall  see  the  pallid  brow, 
The  shroud  about  the  dead, 

That  the  beloved  one  is  in 
/ 

The  azure  overhead  1 
For  scarcely  by  the  open  grave, 

Have  we  of  larger  light 
And  clearer  faith,  the  strength  to  shape 

The  spirit's  upward  flight. 

My  friend,  I  know  not  as  the  sands 

Of  life  are  almost  run, 
If  thou  hast  any  power  to  say, 

Thy  will,  not  mine,  be  done. 
But  pray  thee,  Holy  Comforter, 

To  make  her  weary  eyes 
To  see  from  out  the  clouds  of  death 

The  Star  of  promise  rise. 


THE  GOOD  ANGEL. 

LIKE  a  prophetess  of  sorrow 

Dying  day  foretells  the  night, 
And  adown  the  eastern  hill-tops 

Floats  and  falls  the  deep'ning  light; 
Floats  and  falls  the  light  so  golden 

From,  the  full,  uprisen  moon, 
And  the  little  birds  are  nestled 

In  the  bosom  of  young  June. 

I  am  sitting  where  so  often 

I  have  sat  in  summers  gone, 
Down  the  dim  and  solemn  future, 

Fixedly,  gazing,  on  and  on. 
I  can  see  sweet  gleams  of  sunshine 

Drifting  through  a  valley  wide, 
Where  a  thousand  hopes  aforetime — 

Ventures  of  the  heart  have  died. 

Then  a  phantom  hand  of  darkness 
Comes  between  the  moon  and  I, 

And  the  stars,  like  pallid  spirits, 
Wander,  aimless,  through  the  sky. 


106  THE     GOOD     ANGEL. 

And  the  dreary  winds  about  me,. 

Sigh  and  moan  in  under  breath, 
As,  sometimes,  unwary  watchers 

Hold  their  prophecies  of  death. 

Rise  not  like  a  far-off  planet, 

Time  of  beauty  vanished  long, 
Come  not  back,  lost  voice,  to  haunt  me 

Like  a  half-remembered  song. 
And  if  down  the  long,  long  future, 

No  sweet  Eden  smiles  for  me, 
Save  one  from  the  past,  good  angel, 

This  is  all  I  ask  of  thee ! 


OCTOBER, 

NOT  the  light  of  the  long  blue  Summer, 

Nor  the  flowery  huntress,  Spring, 
Nor  the  chilly  and  moaning  Winter, 

Doth  peace  to  my  bosom  bring, 
Like  the  hazy  and  red  October, 

When  the  woods  stand  bare  and  brown, 
And  into  the  lap  of  the  south  land, 

The  flowers  are  blowing  down ; 
When  all  night  long,  in  the  moonlight, 

The  boughs  of  the  roof-tree  chafe, 
And  the  wind,  like  a  wandering  poet, 

Is  singing  a  mournful  waif; 
And  all  day  through  the  cloud-armies, 

The  sunbeams  coquettishly  rove — 
For  then  in  my  path  first  unfolded 

The  sweet  passion-flower  of  love. 

With  bosom  as  pale  as  the  sea-shell, 

And  soft  as  the  flax  unspun, 
And  locks  like  the  nut-brown  shadows 

In  the  light  of  the  sunken  sun, 


108  OCTOBER. 

Came  the  maiden  whose  wonderful  beauty 

Enchanted  my  soul  from  pain, 
And  gladdened  my  heart,  that  can  never, 

No,  never  be  happy  again. 
Far  away  from  life's  pain  and  passion, 

And  our  Eden  of  love,  she  went, 
Like  a  pale  star  fading  softly 

From  the  morning's  golden  tent. 
But  oft,  when  the  bosom  of  Autumn 

Is  warm  with  the  summer  beams, 
We  meet  in  the  pallid  shadows 

That  border  the  land  of  dreams. 
For  seeing  my  woe  through  the  splendor 

That  hovers  about  her  above, 
She  puts  from  her  forehead  the  glory, 

And  listens  again  to  my  love. 


A  RETROSPECT. 

» 

DOWN  in  the  west,  the  sunset  gold 

Is  fading  from  the  sombre  cloud, 
And  a  fixed  sorrow,  hushed  and  cold, 

Is  closing  round  me  like  a  shroud  ; 
Closing  with  thoughts  of  twilight  hours, 

When  gaily,  on  the  homestead  hill, 
Two  children  played  among  the  flowers — 

I  would  that  they  were  children  still. 

For  as  I  scan  with  tear-dimmed  eyes 

The  future,  till  life's  sun  hangs  low, 
No  white  hand  reaches  from  the  skies, 

With  chrisms  of  healing  for  our  wo. 
And  though  it  may  be  either  mind 

Has  grown  with  toil  and  years  and  strife, 
Experience,  like  a  blightning  wind, 

Has  made  a  barren  waste  of  life — 

A  barren  waste,  whose  -reach  of  sands 
Lies  glowing  in  the  noontide  heat, 

Where  no  bright  tree  of  blossoms  stands, 
Dropping  cool  shadows  round  our  feet. 
5* 


110  A     RETROSPECT. 

Only  one  good  is  ours,  we  feel — 
The  promise  written  in  the  Word, 

The  might  of  the  baptismal  seal 
To  make  us  children  of  the  Lord. 


MY  FRIEND  AND  I. 

MARCH  is  piping  Springtime's  praises, 

Night  by  night  the  new  moon  fills — 
Soon  the  golden-hearted  daisies 

"Will  be  over  all  the  hills. 
Oh !  the  winds  are  dreary,  dreary  ! 

"Pis  a  long  and  lonesome  night : 
And  her  heart,  she  said,  was  weary — 

Weary,  waiting  for  the  light. 

Soft  the  lovely  Summer  weather 

Bloweth  up  the  southern  heights, 
When  the  blue-bell  in  the  heather 

Blooms  beneath  our  lattice  lights. 
Dismally  the  winds  are  crying  ; 

I  am  reft,  she  said,  and  lorn, 
And  my  heart  is  sad  with  sighing, 

Sighing  for  the  distant  morn. 

Blithely  will  the  birds  keep  singing, 
Till  the  Autumn,  sad  of  mien, 

Comes  his  yellow  chaplet  swinging, 
'Gainst  the  Summer's  robe  of  green. 


MY     FRIEND     AND     I. 

Drearily  the  wind  is  blowing — 

Long  and  lonely  is  the  night ; 
Keep  me  not,  she  said,  from  going — 

Going  where  'tis  always  light. 

0 

Blisses,  hope  has  not  foretasted, 
Fill  with  sweetnesses  the  skies ; 

There  young  love  is  never  blasted — 
There  the  Summer  never  dies. 

Have  the  rough  winds  ceased  their  blowing- 
Doth  the  morning  break  ?  she  said  ; 

The  life-tide  was  outward  flowing — 
She  was  dying — she  was  dead. 


A  DREAM  UNTOLD. 

BENEATH  the  yellow  hair  of  May 
The  blushing  flowers  together  lay, 
The  winds  along  the  bending  lea, 
Kept  flowing,  flowing,  like  a  sea 

That  could  not  rest, 
When  first  a  maid  with  tresses  brown 
And  blue  eyes  softly  drooping  down, 
Sat  in  her  chamber  high  and  lone, 
Locking  a  sweet  dream,  all  her  own, 

Within  her  breast. 

The  elms  around  the  homestead  low 
All  night  kept  swaying  to  and  fro, 
And  the  young  summer's  silver  rain 
Kept  beating^  on  the  window  pane, 

So  soft  and  low, 

It  could  not  trouble  the  fair  maid 
Who  tremblingly  and  half  afraid 
Lay  gazing  on  the  village  lights, 
That  glimmered  o'er  the  neighboring  heights, 

In  sleepless  wo. 


114  A     DREAM     UNTOLD. 

The  summer's  tender  glow  is  fled, 
The  early  budding  flowers  are  dead, 
•  But  others,  with  their  leaves  scarce  paled, 

And  their  flushed  bosoms  all  unveiled, 

In  bloom  remain ; 

The  hills  are  white  with  ripened  rye, 
The  quails  from  out  the  meadows  fly; 
The  mower's  whistling,  blithely  gay, 
Makes  answer  to  the  milkmaid's  lay, 
In  vain — in  vain ! 

'Tis  one  of  autumn's  lonesome  eves, 
And  eddying  drifts  of  withered  leaves 
Are  scattered  in  the  woods  behind, 
By  the  damp  fingers  of  the  wind  ; 

But  hope  dies  not, 

And  happy  maids  and  youths  are  seen 
Together  straying  on  the  green, 
While  trembling  hand  and  blushing  cheek 
Tell  better  far  than  words  can  speak, 

Each  other's  thought. 

Winter  is  come — the  homestead  low 
Is  whitened  by  the  falling  snow  ; 
In  the  warm  hearth  the  cricket  cries, 
And  the  storm-shaken  bough  replies  ; 

The  watch-dog's  bay 
Is  answered  from  the  neighboring  hill — 
"  'Tis  very  dark,  the  night,  and  chill," 
Is  by  the  pale  lips  faintly  said, 
Of  her  beside  whose  dying  bed 
They  kneel  to  pray. 


A    DKKAM     UNTOLD.  115 

Morning  is  up — her  wing  of  fire 
Is  shivering  o'er  the  village  spire, 
And  in  the  churchyard  down  below 
Shining  along  the  mounds  of  snow 

Serenejy  bright, 

The  maiden  with  the  hair  so  brown, 
And  blue  eyes  softly  drooping  down, 
Her  dream,  whate'er  it  was,  unknown, 
Shall  lie  beneath  the  cross  of  stone, 

Ere  close  of  night. 


ULALIE. 

THE  crimson  of  the  maple  trees 

Is  lighted  by  the  moon's  soft  glow ; 
Oh,  nights  like  this,  and  things  like  these, 

Bring  back  a  dream  of  long  ago. 
For  on  an  eve  as  sweet  as  this — 

Upon  this  bank — beneath  this  tree — 
My  lips,  in  love's  impassioned  kiss, 

Met  those  of  Ulalie. 
• 

Softly  as  now  the  dewdrops  burned 

In  the  flushed  bosoms  of  the  flowers, 
Backward  almost  seems  time  to  have  turned 

The  golden  axis  of  the  hours, 
Till,  cold  as  ocean's  beaten  surf, 

Beneath  these  trailing  boughs,  I  see 
The  white  cross  and  the  faded  turf 

Above  lost  Ulalie. 


PARTING  SONG. 

BEHIND  their  cloudy  curtains, 
Over  sunset's  crimson  sea, 

Like  fires  along  a  battle  field, 
Intensely,  mournfully, 

The  radiant  stars  are  burning, 
That  will  burn  no  more  for  me. 

Ere  on  yon  path  of  glory, 

Which  still  the  daylight  warms, 

Walks  silently  the  midnight, 

With  the  pale  moon  in  her  arms, 

I  shall  be  where  longings  trouble  not, 
Nor  haunting  fear  alarms. 

Nay,  weep  not,  gentlest,  dearest, 
When  joy  should  most  abound, 

That  the  dewy,  tender  clasping 
Of  thy  arms  must  be  unwound ; 

We  have  journeyed  long  together 
In  life's  wilderness  profound. 


118  FARTING     SONG. 

Like  the  shining  threads  of  silver 

Which  the  showers  of  summer  leave, 

When  to  webs  of  beauty  woven 

By  the  golden  loom  of  eve, 

Is  the  path  that  lies  before  me  now — 

Then,  dear  one,  do  not  grieve. 

Mortality  has  been  to  me 
A  wheel  of  pain,  at  best, 

And  I  sink,  although  thy  gentle  love 
Has  soothed  and  almost  blest, 
As  a  pilgrim  in  the  shadow 

Of  the  sepulchre,  to  rest. 

Not  when  the  morn  is  glowing, 
Like  a  banner  o'er  the  brave, 

Nor  when  the  world  is  bathing 
In  the  noontide's  amber  wave, 

Will  I  come,  oh  Love,  to  meet  thee 
From  the  chamber  of  the  grave. 

But  through  the  silver  columns 
Leaning  earthward  from  the  arch, 

When  the  pale  and  solemn  army 
Of  the  night  is  on  the  march, 

I  will  glide,  oh  Love,  to  meet  thee, 
From  the  shadow  of  the  larch. 

As  the  poet's  bosom  trembles 

With  some  awful  melody, 
Till  he  hears  the  dark  procession 

Of  the  ages  sweeping  by, 
Lo  !  my  heart  is  trembling,  beating, 

To  the  music  of  the  sky. 


THE  BROKEN  HOUSEHOLD. 

VAINLY,  vainly  memory  seeks, 

Round  our  father's  knee, 
Laughing  eyes  and  rosy  cheeks 

Where  they  used  to  be : 
Of  the  circle  once  so  wide, 
Three  are  wanderers,  three  have  died. 

Golden-haired  and  dewy-eyed, 

Prattling  all  the  day, 
Was  the  baby,  first  that  died ; 

Oh,  'twas  hard  to  lay 
Dimpled  hand  and  cheek  of  snow 

In  the  grave  so  dark  and  low. 

Smiling  back  on  all  who  smiled, 

Ne'er  by  sorrow  thralled, 
Half  a  woman,  half  a  child, 

Was  the  next  one  called : 
Then  a  grave  more  deep  and  wide 
Made  they  by  the  baby's  side. 


120  THB     BROKEN     HOUSEHOLD, 

When  or  where  the  other  died 

Only  Heaven  can  tell ; 
Treading  manhood's  path  of  pride 

Was  he  when  he  fell; 
Haply  thistles,  blue  and  red, 

Bloom  about  his  lonely  bed. 

I  am  for  the  living  three 

Only  left  to  pray  ; 
Two  are  on  the  stormy  sea ; 

Farther  still  than  they, 
Wanders  one,  his  young  heart  dim — 
Oftenest,  most  I  pray  for  him. 

Whatsoe'er  they  do  or-dare, 
Wheresoe'er  they  roam, 

Have  them,  Father,  in  Thy  care, 
Guide  them  safely  home; 

Home,  oh,  Father,  in  the  sky, 

Where  none  wander  and  none  die. 


FIRE  PICTURES. 

IN  the  embers  all  aglow, 

Fancy  makes  the  pictures  plain, 
As  I  listen  to  the  snow 

Beating  chill  against  the  pane — 
The  wild  December  snow 

On  the  lamp-illumined  pane. 

Bent  downward  from  his  prime, 
Like  the  ripe  fruit  from  its  bough, 

As  I  muse  my  simple  rhyme, 
I  can  see  my  father  now, 

With  the  warning  flowers  of  time 
Blooming  white  about  his  brow. 

Sadly  flows  the  willow  tree 

On  the  hill  so  dear,  yet  dread, 
Where  the  resting-places  be, 

Of  our  dear  ones  that  are  dead— 
Where  the  mossy  headstones  be, 
Of  my  early  playmates  dead. 


122  FIRE       PICTURES. 

But  despite  the  dismal  snow, 
Blinding  all  the  window  o'er, 

And  the  wind,  that,  crouching  low, 
Whines  against  my  study  door, 

In  the  embers'  twilight  glow 
I  can  see  one  picture  more. 

Down  the  beechen-shaded  hills, 
With  the  summer  lambs  at  play, 

Run  the  violet-nursing  rills 

Through  the  meadows  sweet  with  hay, 

Where  the  gray-winged  plover  trills 
Of  its  joy  the  live-long  day — 

Seeming  almost  within  call, 

'Neath  our  ancient  trysting  tree, 

Art  thou  pictured,  source  of  all 
That  was  ever  dear  to  me ; 

But  the  wasted  embers  fall, 
And  the  night  is  all  I  see — 

The  night  with  gusts  of  snow 
Blowing  wild  against  the  pane, 

And  the  wind  that  crouches  low, 
Crying  mournfully  in  vain, 

And  the  dreams  that  come  and  go 
Through  my  memory-haunted  brain. 


TO  THE  WINDS. 

TALK  to  my  heart,  oh  winds — 
Talk  to  my  heart  to-night ; 

My  spirit  always  finds 
With  you  a  new  delight, 

Finds  always  new  delight, 
In  your  silver  talk  at  night. 

Give  me  your  soft  embrace 

As  you  used  to  long  ago. 
In  your  shadowy  trysting  place, 

WThen  you  seemed  to  love  me  so— 
When  you  sweetly  kissed  me  so, 
On  the  green  hills  long  ago. 

Come  up  from  your  cool  bed, 

In  the  stilly  twilight  sea, 
For  the  dearest  hope  lies  dead, 

That  was  ever  dear  to  me ; 
Come  up  from  your  cool  bed, 
And  we'll  talk  about  the  dead. 


124  TO     THE     WINDS. 

Tell  me,  for  oft  you  go, 

Winds,  lovely  winds  of  night, 

About  the  chambers  low, 
With  sheets  so  dainty  white, 

If  they  sleep  through  all  the  night, 

In  the  beds  so  chill  and  white  ? 

Talk  to  me,  winds,  and  say, 
If  in  the  grave  be  rest ; 

For,  oh,  life's  little  day 
Is  a  weary  one  at  best ; 

Talk  to  my  heart  and  say 
If  death  will  give  me  rest. 


TO  THE  SPIRIT  OF  GLADNESS. 

UNDERNEATH  a  dreary  sky, 

Spirit  glad  and  free, 
Voyaging  solemnly  am  I 

Toward  an  unknown  sea. 
Falls  the  moonlight,  sings  the  breeze, 
But  thou  speakest  not  in  these. 

In  the  summers  overflown 

What  delights  we  had  ! 
Now  I  sit  all  day  alone, 

Weaving  ditties  sad ; 
But  thou  comest  not  for  the  sake 
Of  the  lonesome  rhymes  I  make. 

Faithless  spirit,  spirit  free, 
Where  mayst  thou  be  found  ? 

Where  the  meadow  fountains  be 
Raining  music  round, 

And  the  thistle  burs  so  blue 

Shine  the  livelong  day  with  dew. 

Keep  thee,  in  thy  pleasant  bowers, 

From  my  heart  and  brain ; 
Even  the  summer's  lap  of  flowers 
6 


126  TO     THE     SPRIT     OF     GLADNESS. 

Could  not  cool  the  pain  ; 
And  for  pallid  cheek  and  brow 
What  companionship  hast  thou  ? 

Erewhile,  when  the  rainy  spring 

Filled  the  pastures  full 
Of  sweet  daisies  blossoming 

Out  as  white  as  wool ; 
We  have  gathered  them,  and  made 
Beds  of  Beauty  in  the  shade. 

Would  that  I  had  any  friend 

Lovingly  to  go 
To  the  hollows  where  they  blend 

With  the  grasses  low, 
And  a  pillow  soft  and  white 
Make  for  the  approaching  night. 


A  CHRISTMAS  STORY. 

• 

Tis  Christmas  Eve,  and  by  the  fire-light  dim, 

His  blue  eyes  hidden  by  his  fallen  hair, 
My  little  brother — mirth  is  not  for  him — 

Whispers,  how  poor  we  are  ! 

Come,  dear  one,  rest  upon  my  knee  your  head, 
And  push  away  those  curls  of  golden  glow, 

And  I  will  tell  a  Christmas  tale  I  read 
A  long,  long  time  ago. 

'Tis  of  a  little  orphan  boy  like  you, 

Who  had  on  earth  no  friend  his  feet  to  guide 

Into  the  path  of  virtue,  straight  and  true, 
And  so  he  turned  aside. 

The  parlor  fires,  with  genial  warmth  aglow, 
Threw  over  him  their  waves  of  mocking  light, 

Once  as  he  idly  wandered  to  and  fro, 
In  the  unfriendly  night. 

The  while  a  thousand  little  girls  and  boys, 

With  look  of  pride,  or  half-averted  eye, 
Their  hands  and  arms  o'erbrimmed  with  Christmas  toys, 

Passed  and  repassed  him  by. 


128  A     CHKISTMAS     6TORY. 

Chilled  into  half  forgetfulness  of  wrong, 
And  tempted  by  the  splendors  of  the  time, 

As  roughly  jostled  by  the  hurrying  throng, 
Trembling,  he  talked  with  crime. 

And  when  the  Tempter  once  had  found  the  way, 

And  thought's  still  threshold,  half-forbidden,  crossed, 

His  steps  went  darkly  onward  day  by  day, 
Till  he  at  last  was  lost. 

So  lost,  that  once  from  a  delirious  dream, 
As  consciousness  began  his  soul  to  stir, 

Around  him  fell  the  morning's  checkered  beam — 
He  was  a  prisoner. 

Then  wailed  he  in  the  frenzy  of  wild  pain, 

Then  wept  he  till  his  eyes  with  tears  were  dim, 

But  who  would  kindly  answer  back  again 
A  prisoner-boy  like  him  ? 

And  so  his  cheek  grew  thin  and  paled  away, 
But  not  a  loving  hand  was  stretched  to  save  j 

And  the  snow  covered  the  next  Christmas-day 
His  lonesome  little  grave. 

Nay,  gentle  brother,  do  not  weep,  I  pray, 
You  have  no  sins  like  his  to  be  forgiven, 

And  kneeling  down  together,  we  can  say, 
Father,  who  art  in  Heaven. 

So  shall  the  blessed  presence  of  content 
Brighten  our  home  of  toil  and  poverty, 

And  the  dear  consciousness  of  time  well  spent, 
Our  Christmas  portion  be. 


THISBE. 

SUNSET'S  pale  arrows  shivering  near  and  far  !— 

A  little  gray  bird  on  an  oaken  tree 
Pouring  its  tender  plaint,  and  eve's  lone  star 

Resting  its  silver  rim  upon  the  sea ! 

In  dismallest  abandonment  she  lies — 
The  undone  Thisbe,  witless  of  the  night, 

Locking  the  sweet  time  from  her  mournful  eyes, 
With  her  thin  fingers,  a  most  piteous  sight. 

Like  violets  white  in  hollow  meadow-ground, 
Shut  from  the  broad  and  garish  eye  of  day, 

So  'neath  her  soft  arms,  clasped,  interwound, 
The  milky  beauty  of  her  bosom  lay. 

O'er  her  sweet  cheek  the  sprouting  grasses  lean, 
And  the  round  moon's  gray,  melancholy  light 

Creeps  through  the  darkness,  all  unfelt,  unseen, 
And  folds  her  tender  limbs  from  the  chill  night. 

Beside  her  on  the  hill  the  Twilight  lies, 

Twisting  her  pallid  hands  with  the  bright  hair 

That  trembles  in  the  light  of  her  clear  eyes, 
Like  strings  of  daffodils  in  the  blue  air. 


130  THIS  BE. 

And  the  dim  mate  of  silence,  newly  born, 
Stolen  softly  from  the  satyr-haunted  grove, 

Stoops  o'er  expiring  day,  like  maiden  lorn 

Strewing  pale  blossoms  o'er  her  murdered  love. 

Pressing  your  cold  hands  over  rushy  springs, 
And  making  your  chaste  beds  in  beaded  dew, 

About  her,  Nereides,  draw  your  magic  rings, 
And  wreath  her  golden-budded  hopes  anew. 

For  by  the  tumult  of  thick-coming  sighs, 
The  aspect  wan  that  hath  no  mortal  name, 

I  know  the  wilful  god  of  the  blind  eyes 

Hath  sped  a  love-shaft  with  too  true  an  aim. 


OUT  BY  THE  WATERS. 

THE  hedges  of  roses  and  islands  of  gold 
Have  floated  and  faded  away  from  the  sky, 

And  I  long,  as  their  vanishing  glow  I  behold, 
For  a  home  where  the  beautiful  never  shall  die : 

For  a  home,  where  the  children  of  sorrow  shall  cease 
To  mourn  over  dreams  that  are  broken  and  gone ; 
Where  the  wings  of  the  soul  may  be  folded  in  peace 

By  the  rivers  that  always  flow  shiningly  on ! 

» 

I'm  sitting  alone  in  a  deep  bosomed  vale, 

On  a  bank  of  fresh  moss  that  hangs  over  a  rill ; 

And  catching  at  times,  from  the  wings  of  the  gale 
The  laughter  of  children  at  play  on  the  hill. 

For  the  wandering  spirit  of  beauty  is  back 

With  fragrance  and  verdure  for  hill  top  and  tree, 

Leaving  sunshine  and  blossoms,  and  birds  on  her  track, 
And  filling  the  young  heart  with  innocent  glee. 

I  forget  the  dark  lessons  of  history's  page 
In  listening  to  footsteps  so  careless  and  light : 

I  forget  the  deep  plottings  of  manhood  and  age — 
Their  scorning  of  weakness,  and  trampling  of  right : 


132  OUT     BY     THE     WATERS. 

There's  a  cloud  on  the  moon !  but  the  light  is  so  sweet, 
("Tis  one  of  the  Spring-time's  most  beautiful  eves) 

I  can  tell  every  blossom  that  lies  at  my  feet, 

And  the  birds  that  are  up  o'er  my  head  in  the  leaves. 

Oh  I  love  to  be  out  by  the  waters  at  night 

As  they  trip  to  the  sea  on  the  bright-tinted  sands : 

And  deem  their  glad  billows  are  children  of  light 
With  songs  on  their  lips  and  the  stars  in  their  hands. 


LOVE'S  CHAPEL. 

As  if  soft  odors  from  the  vales  of  bliss 

Pressed  open,  dear  one,  the  pearl  gates  above, 

Came  in  the  Hybla  sweetness  of  thy  kiss, 
The  gentle,  gentle  meaning  of  thy  love. 

Then  felt  I  as  some  mortal  maid  who  lies 

Beneath  a  rose-roof  bower  that  sunshine  warms, 

Who,  having  charmed  a  god  from  the  blue  skies, 
First  feels  his  gold  locks  trembling  in  her  arms. 

Haste  !  bring  me  river-lilies  pale  as  snow, 

Meek  wood-flowers  faintly  streaked  with  jet  and  blue, 

Blush-roses  gathered  where  the  west  winds  blow, 
And  little  moss-cups  dripping  wet  with  dew. 

And  when  the  silver  ring  of  the  new  moon 
Hangs  o'er  the  dark  woods  sloping  to  the  sea, 

When  hope  lies  dallying  in  the  lap  of  June, 
I'll  twine  a  chapel  for  my  love  and  me. 

A  quiet  chapel  'neath  the  quiet  boughs, 

Whose  dusky  beauty  makes  the  days  like  eves, 
Where  kneeling  softly  we  may  make  our  vows 

In  the  pale  light  like  broken  lily  leaves. 
6* 


134  LOVE'S   CHAPEL. 

Feeding  my  heart  with  dreams  of  that  dear  hour, 
Nor  pain,  nor  alien  sorrow,  nor  dim  fear 

Shall  cross  the  threshold  of  our  chapel  bower, 
Till  that  sweet  time,  oh  gentle  love,  be  here  ! 

As  suddenly  the  brown  leaf-buried  root, 

When  the  spring  thaw  brings  down  the  genial  shower, 
Into  the  blue  air  lifts  its  tender  shoot, 

Crowned  with  the  beauty  of  its  perfect  flower : 

So  is  my  hope,  long  buried  under  fears, 

And  walled  from  sunshine  by  the  helpless  night, 

Crowned  with  the  beauty  of  its  primal  years, 
Uplifted  softly  to  the  loving  light. 


THE  TRYST. 

THE  moss  is  withered,  the  moss  is  brown 

Under  the  dreary  cedarn  bowers, 
And  fleet  winds  running  the  valleys  down 

Cover  with  dead  leaves  the  sleeping  flowers. 

White  as  a  lily  the  moonlight  lies 
Under  the  gray  oak's  ample  boughs ; 

In  the  time  of  June  'twere  a  paradise 
For  gentle  lovers  to  make  their  vows. 

In  the  middle  of  night  when  the  wolf  is  dumb, 
Like  a  sweet  star  rising  out  of  the  sea, 

They  say  that  a  damsel  at  times  will  come, 
And  brighten  the  chilly  light  under  the  tree. 

And  a  blessed  angel  from  out  the  sky 
Cometh  her  lonely  watch  to  requite ; 

But  not  for  my  soul's  sweet  sake  would  I 
Pray  under  its  shadow  alone  at  night. 

A  boy  by  the  tarn  on  the  mountain  side 
Was  cruelly  murdered  long  ago, 

Where  oft  a  shadow  is  seen  to  glide 
And  wander  wearily  to  and  fro. 


136  THE     TRYST. 

The  night  was  sweet  like  an  April  night, 
When  misty  softness  the  blue  air  fills, 

And  the  freckled  adder's  tongue  makes  bright 
The  sleepy  hollows  among  the  hills. 

When,  startled  up  from  the  hush  that  broods 
Beauteously  o'er  the  midnight  time, 

The  gust  ran  wailing  along  the  woods 
Like  one  who  seeth  an  awful  crime. 

The  tree  is  withered,  the  tree  is  lost, 

Where  he  gathered  the  ashen  berries  red, 

As  meekly  the  dismal  woods  he  crossed — 
The  tree  is  withered,  the  boy  is  dead. 

Down  the  blue  river  waves  slow  and  soft 
A  damsel  is  rowing  her  boat  with  joy ; 

Put  thy  arms  around  her,  good  angel  aloft, 
If  she  be  the  love  of  the  murdered  boy  ; 

For  still  she  comes,  -as  the  daylight  fades, 
Her  tryst  to  keep  near  the  cedarn  bowers. 

Bear  with  her  gently,  tenderly  maids, 

Whose  hopes  are  open  like  summer  flowers. 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  WO. 

DIMLY  the  shadows  stretch  across  the  seas, 

With  glistening  frost  the  window  pane  is  white ;' 

And  the  blind  winds  go  moaning  through  the  trees — 
Oh !  'tis  a  mournful  night ! 

Under  the  rafters,  where,  in  summer's  heat, 
The  twittering  swallow  hung  her  nest  of  clay, 

The  new-milked  heifer,  sheltered  from  the  sleet, 
Chews  the  sweet-scented  hay. 

On  southern  slopes,  hard  by  the  leafy  wold, 

Where  the  stray  sunbeams  all  the  day  kept  warm, 

Instinct  is  shepherding  the  harmless  fold 
From  the  ice-bearded  storm. 

The  watch-dog,  shivering  couchant  on  the  sill, 
Watches  the  moon,  slow  sailing  up  the  sky, 

Nor  answers,  calling  from  the  churchyard  hill, 
The  owlet's  frequent  cry. 

In  the  dim  grass  the  little  flowers  are  dead, 
No  more  his  song  the  grasshopper  awakes, 

And  the  pale  silver  of  the  spider's  thread, 
No  wanton  wild-bird  breaks. 


138  THE     BRIDAL     OF     WO. 

Meekly  the  cold  lips  of  the  dying  day 

Pressed  the  pale  forehead  of  the  evening  star, 

While  brightly  wildering  constellations  lay, 
Like  village  hills  afar. 

Yet  did  my  soul,  whose  flights  have  sometimes  stirred 

The  clouds  that  curtain  back  eternity, 
Lie  wailing  in  my  bosom,  like  a  bird, 

Driven  far  out  at  sea. 

On  such  a  night  my  heart  was  wed  to  pain, 
And  joy  along  its  surface  can  but  gleam, 

Like  the  red  threads  of  morning's  fiery  skein 
Along  the  frozen  stream. 


FALLEN  GENIUS. 

• 

No  tears  for  him ! — he  saw  by  faith  sublime 

Through  the  wan  shimmer  of  life's  wasted  flame, 

Across  the  green  hills  of  the  future  time, 
The  golden  breaking  of  the  morn  of  fame. 

Faded  by  the  diviner  life,  and  worn, 

The  dust  has  fallen  away,  and  ye  but  see 

The  ruins  of  the  house  wherein  were  borne 
The  birth-pangs  of  an  immortality. 

His  great  life  from  the  wondrous  life  to  be, 

Clasped  the  bright  splendors  that  no  sorrow  mars, 

As  some  pale,  shifting  column  of  the  sea, 
Mirrors  the  awful  beauty  of  the  stars. 

What  was  Love's  lily  pressure,  what  the  light 

Of  its  pleased  smile,  that  a  chance  breath  may  chill ! 

His  soul  was  mated  with  the  winds  of  night, 
And  wandered  through  the  universe  at  will. 

Oft  in  his  heart  its  stormy  passion  woke, 

Yet  from  its  bent  his  soul  no  more  was  stirred, 

Than  is  the  broad  green  bosom  of  the  oak 
By  the  light  flutter  of  the  summer  bird. 


140  FALLEN     GENIUS. 

His  loves  were  of  forbidden  realms,  unwrought 
In  poet's  rhyme,  the  music  of  his  themes, 

Hovering  about  the  watch-fires  of  his  thought, 
On  the  dim  borders  of  the  land  of  dreams. 

For  while  his  hand  with  daring  energy 

Fed  the  slow  fire  that,  burning,  must  consume, 

The  ravishing  joys  of  unheard  harmony 
Beat  like  a  living  pulse  within  the  tomb. 

Pillars  of  fire  that  wander  through  life's  night, 
Children  of  genius !  ye  are  doomed  to  be, 

In  the  embrace  of  your  far-reaching  light, 
Locking  the  radiance  of  eternity. 


DYING   SONG. 

LEAVE  me,  O  leave  me !  my  o'erwearied  feet, 
O  my  beloved  !  may  walk  no  more  with  thee ; 

For  I  am  standing  where  the  circles  meet 
That  mortals  name,  Time  and  Eternity. 

Tell  me,  O  tell  me  not  of  summer  flowers 
In  vales  where  once  our  steps  together  trod ; 

Even  though  I  now  behold  the  shining  towers 
That  rise  above  the  city  of  our  God. 

I  know  that  the  wide  fields  of  heaven  are  fair — 
That  on  their  borders  grief  is  all  forgot ; 

That  the  white  tents  of  beauty,  too,  are  there — 
But  how  shall  I  be  blessed  where  thou  art  not  ? 

Over  the  green  hills,  that  are  only  crossed 
By  drifts  of  light,  and  choruses  of  glee, 

How  shall  I  wander  like  a  spirit  lost, 

And  fallen  and  ruined,  missing,  mourning  thee  ! 

If  any  wrong  of  mine,  or  thought,  or  said, 

Has  given  thee  pain  or  sorrow,  O  forgive ! 
.As  wilt  thou  not,  my  friend,  when  I  am  dead, 
And  by  my  errors  better  learn  to  live. 


142  DYING     SONG. 

There  is  not  found  in  all  the  pleasant  past, 

One  memory  of  thee  that  I  deplore, 
Or  wish  not  to  be  in  my  heart  at  last, 

When  I  shall  fall  asleep  to  wake  no  more. 

Then  leave,  oh  leave  me  !  though  I  see  the  light 
Of  heaven's  sweet  clime,  and  hear  the  angel's  call, 

Where  there  is  never  any  cloud  nor  night, 
Thy  love  is  stronger,  mightier  than  all ! 


DYING. 

LIGHT  comes  no  more  to  thy  weary  eyes 
When  moons  are  filling,  or  morn  unfolds ; 

Thy  feet  have  struck  on  the  path  that  lies 
Bordering  the  Eden  that  faith  beholds. 

Why  dost  thou  linger  and  backward  gaze 
To  the  hills  now  lying  so  faint  and  far, 

Where  plowing  a  furrow  through  golden  haze, 
Came  up  the  beautiful  morning  star. 

That  star  that  paled  in  the  sky  and  fled, 

Ere  yet  the  blossoms  of  spring  were  blown ; 

The  stormy  wings  of  the  night  o'erspread 
The  mists  of  glory  that  round  it  shone. 

But  though  the  light  of  the  day  is  gone, 
The  valley  of  shadows  is  bright  with  dew, 

And  where  the  river  of  death  moans  on, 
The  angels  are  waiting  to  take  thee  through. 

I  think  of  the  visions  of  bliss  we  wove 

In  the  faded  beauty  of  years  o'erflown,          * 

That  thou  hast  been  crowned  with  a  crown  of  love, 
And  I  am  a  dreamer  of  dreams  alone. 


144  DYING. 

I  think  of  the  children  that  climb  thy  knees, 
And  how  dim  the  light  of  the  hearth  will  be, 

In  the  time  that  prophecy  plainly  sees 

When  the  circle  is  narrowed  away  from  thee : 

And  question  the  bodiless  shapes  of  air 
That  hover  about  when  the  soul  is  sad, 

To  know  why  the  angel  of  death  should  spare 
The  worn  and  weary  instead  of  the  glad. 

But  they  answer  not,  and  I  only  know, 
Seeing  thee  wasted  and  pale  with  pain, 

Where  the  rivers  of  Paradise  sweetly  flow, 
They  never  say  I  am  sick  again. 


MAY  VERSES. 

Do  you  hear  the  wild  birds  calling — 
Do  you  hear  them,  oh  my  heart  ? 

Do  you  see  the  blue  air  falling 
From  their  rushing  wings  apart  ? 

With  young  mosses  they  are  flocking, 
For  they  hear  the  laughing  breeze, 

With  dewy  fingers  rocking 

Their  light  cradles  in  the  trees  ! 

Within  nature's  bosom  holden, 
'Till  the  wintry  storms  were  done, 

Little  violets,  white  and  golden, 
Now  are  leaning  to  the  sun. 

With  its  stars  the  box  is  florid, 

And  the  wind-flower,  sweet  to  view, 

Hath  uncovered  its  pale  forehead 
To  the  kisses  of  the  dew. 

While  thousand  blossoms  tender, 

As  coquettishly  as  they, 
Are  sunning  their  wild  splendor 

In  the  blue  eyes  of  the  May  ! 


146  MAY     VERSES. 

In  the  water  softly  dimpled — 
In  the  flower-enameled  sod — 

How  beautifully  exampled 
Is  the  providence  of  God ! 

From  the  insect's  little  story 
To  the  fartherest  star  above, 

All  are  waves  of  glory,  glory, 
In  the  ocean  of  his  love ! 


PARTING  WITH  A  POET. 

ALL  the  sweet  summer  that  is  gone, 
Two  paths  I  sighed  to  mark — 

One  brightly  leading  up  and  on, 
One  downward  to  the  dark. 

No  prophecy  enwrapt  my  heart, 

No  Vala's  gifts  were  mine ; 
Yet  knew  I  that  our  paths  must  part — 

The  loftier  one  be  thine. 

For  not  a  soul  inspiredly  thrills, 
Whose  wing  shall  not  be  free 

To  sweep  across  the  eternal  hills, 
Like  winds  across  the  sea. 

And,  wheresoe'er  thy  lot  may  be, 

As  all  the  past  has  proved, 
Love  shall  abide  and  be  with  thee, 

For  genius  must  be  loved. 

While  I,  the  heart's  vain  yearning  stilled, 
The  heart  that  vexed  me  long, 

Essay  with  my  poor  hands  to  build 
The  silvery  walls  of  song. 


148  PARTING     WITH     A     POET. 

Still,  through  the  nights  of  wild  unrest, 

That  softer  joyance  bars, 
•  Winding  about  my  vacant  breast 
The  tresses  of  the  stars. 

While  at  the  base  of  heights  sublime, 
Dim  thoughts  forevermore 

Lie  moaning,  like  the  waves  of  time 
Along  the  immortal  shore. 


HARRIET. 

DOWN  the  west  the  gust  is  rushing 
Through  the  twilight's  cloudy  bars, 

And  the  crescent  moon  is  pushing 
Her  slim  horn  between  the  stars. 

Now  the  winter  night  is  falling 
O'er  the  hills  of  crisped  snow, 

But  she  hears,  she  says,  the  calling 
Of  an  angel,  and  must  go. 

She  is  pale  and  very  weary, 
But  her  thin  lips  never  moan, 

And  though  night  is  chill  and  dreary, 
Fears  she  not  to  go  alone. 

Surely,  when  the  shroud  shall  cover 
Her  meek  beauty,  death  subdued, 

From  his  eyes  who  was  her  lover, 
He  will  love  her  angelhood. 

He  that,  for  the  wine-cup's  kisses 
Sold  away  her  gentle  love — 

Not  alas,  for  holy  blisses, 
Earthly,  or  of  heaven  above. 

7 


150  HARRIET. 

Morning  sadly,  dimly  presses 
Up  the  orient,  and  the  few- 
Belated  stars  their  yellow  tresses 
Gather  from  her  pathway  blue. 

Broader  now  the  light  is  falling, 
And  the  day  comes  on  and  on, 

As  the  angel  skyward  calling, 
Calls  no  longer — she  is  gone. 


TO  THE  HOPEFUL. 

HARK  !  for  the  multitude  cry  out, 
Oh,  watchman,  tell  us  of  the  night ; 

And  hear  the  joyous  answering  shout, 
The  hills  are  red  with  light ! 

Lo !  where  the  followers  of  the  meek, 
Like  Johns,  are  crying  in  the  wild, 

The  leopard  lays  its  spotted  cheek 
Close  to  the  new-born  child. 

The  gallows-tree  with  tremor  thrills — 
The  North  to  mercy's  plea  inclines ; 

And  round  about  the  Southern  hills 
Maidens  are  planting  vines. 

The  star  that  trembled  softly  bright, 
Where  Mary  and  the  young  child  lay, 

Through  ages  of  unbroken  night 
Hath  tracked  his  luminous  way. 

From  the  dim  shadow  of  the  palm 
The  tattooed  islander  has  leant, 

Helping  to  swell  the  wondrous  psalm 
Of  love's  great  armament ! 


152  TO     THE     HOPEFUL. 

And  the  wild  Arab,  swart  and  grave, 
Looks  startled  from  his  tent,  and  scans 

Advancing  truth,  with  shining  wave, 
Washing  the  desert  sands. 

Forth  from  the  slaver's  deadly  crypt 
The  Ethiop  like  an  Athlete  springs, 

And  from  her  long- worn  fetters  stript, 
The  dark  Liberiaa  sings. 

But  sorrow  to  and  fro  must  keep 
Its.heavings  until  evil  cease, 

Like  the  great  cradle  of  the  deep, 
Rocking  a  storm  to  peace. 

Oh,  men  and  brethren,  far  and  near, 

Believers  in  the  better  day, 
Who,  learning  love's  deep  wisdom  here, 

Have  better  learned  to  pray — 

By  all  the  martyrs  that  have  trod 
Before  you,  seeing  not  the  dawn, 

And  by  the  true  and  living  God, 
I  charge  you,  labor  on ! 


EESPITE. 

LEAVE  me,  dear  ones,  to  my  slumber, 
Daylight's  faded  glow  is  gone  ; 

In  the  red  light  of  the  morning 
I  must  rise  and  journey  on. 

I  am  weary,  oh,  how  weary ! 

And  would  rest  a  little  while  ; 
Let  your  kind  looks  be  my  blessing, 

And  your  last  "  Good-night"  a  smile. 

We  have  journeyed  up  together, 

Through  the  pleasant  day-time  flown ; 

Now  my  feet  have  pressed  life's  summit, 
And  my  pathway  lies  alone. 

And,  my  dear  ones,  do  not  call  me, 
Should  you  haply  be  awake, 

When  across  the  eastern  hill-tops 
Presently  the  day  shall  break. 

For,  while  yet  the  stars  are  lying 
In  the  gray  lap  of  the  dawn, 

On  my  long  and  solemn  journey 
I  shall  be  awake  and  gone  ; 


154  RESPITE. 

Far  from  mortal  pain  and  sorrow, 
And  from  passion's  stormy  swell, 

Knocking  at  the  golden  gateway 
Of  the  eternal  citadel. 

Therefore,  dear  ones,  let  me  slumber- 
Faded  is  the  day  and  gone  ; 

And  with  morning's  early  splendor, 
I  must  rise  and  journey  on. 


THE  DYING  MOTHER. 

WE  were  weeping  round  her  pillow, 
For  we  knew  that  she  must  die: 

It  was  night  within  our  bosoms — 
It  was  night  within  the  sky. 

There  were  seven  of  us  children — 

I  the  oldest  one  of  all ; 
So  I  tried  to  whisper  comfort, 

But  the  blinding  tears  would  fall. 

On  my  knee  my  little  brother 

Leaned  his  aching  brow  and  wept, 

And  my  sister's  long  black  tresses 
O'er  my  heaving  bosom  swept. 

The  shadow  of  an  awful  fear 

Came  o'er  me  as  I  trod, 
To  lay  the  burden  of  our  grief 

Before  the  throne  of  God. 

Oh!  be  kind  to  one  another, 

Was  my  mother's  pleading  prayer, 

As  her  hand  lay  like  a  snow-flake 
On  the  baby's  golden  hair. 


156  THE     DYING     MOTHER. 

Then  a  glory  bound  her  forehead, 
Like  the  glory  of  a  crown, 

And  in  the  silent  sea  of  death 
The  star  of  life  went  down. 

Her  latest  breath  was  borne  away 
Upon  that  loving  prayer, 

And  the  hand  grew  heavier,  paler, 
In  the  baby's  golden  hair. 


LAST  SONG. 

THE  beetle  from  the  furrow  goes, 
The  bird  is  on  the  sheltering  limb, 

And  in  the  twilight's  pallid  close 

Sits  the  gray  evening,  hushed  and  dim. 

In  the  blue  west  the  sun  is  down, 
And  soft  the  fountain  washes  o'er 

Green  limes  and  hyacinths  so  brown 
As  never  fountain  washed  before. 

I  scarce  can  hear  the  curlew  call, 

I  scarce  can  feel  the  night- wind's  breath ; 

I  only  see  the  shadows  fall, 
1  only  feel  this  chill  is  death. 

At  morn  the  bird  will  leave  the  bough, 
The  beetle  o'er  the  furrow  run, 

But  with  the  darkness  falling  now, 
The  morning  for  my  eyes  is  done. 

Piping  his  ditty  low  and  soft, 

If  shepherd  chance  to  cross  the  wold, 

Bound  homeward  from  the  flowery  croft, 
And  the  white  tendance  of  his  fold, 

7* 


158  THE     LAST     BONG. 

And  find  me  lying  fast  asleep, 
Be  inspiration  round  him  thrown, 

That  he  may  dig  down  very  deep, 
Where  never  any  sunshine  shone. 

My  life  has  been  unbroken  gloom, 
No  friend  my  dying  hour  will  see — 

Oh,  wherefore  should  he  ask  for  room 
In  consecrated  ground  for  me  ? 


FALMOUTH  HALL. 

'TwAS  just  a  year  at  the  summer's  tide, 

And  now  was  the  leaflet's  fall, 
Since  the  lady  Camilla,  a  blushing  bride, 
In  the  graceful  beauty  of  matron  pride, 

First  came  to  the  Falmouth  Hall. 

The  air  was  chilly,  the  winds  were  high, 

Lifting  and  drifting  the  leaves  ; 
The  hills  were  bare,  for  the  ripened  rye 
In  the  golden  gales  of  the  warm  July 

Were  bound  into  silver  sheaves. 

Sir  Philip  is  mounting  his  courser  fleet, 

Though  dismally  falls  the' night, 
Nor  heeds  at  all  if  his  glances  meet 
The  locks  of  the  lady,  the  pale  and  sweet, 

That  darken  the  lattice-light. 

The  lady  was  lovely — her  lord  was  true, 

As  the  maids  of  the  mansion  say, 
But  cold  as  the  sleet  were  his  words,  and  few, 
As  he  struck  through  the  fall  of  the  night,  and  flew 

From  the  home  of  his  sires  away. 


160  FAL  MOUTH     HALL. 

Hath  he  gone  to  the  field  of  the  holy  war  ? 
He  hath  nor  helmet,  nor  sword,  nor  star. 

Doth  he  go  as  a  jousting  knight  ? 
And  when  will  he  tighten  his  flowing  rein 
At  the  gate  of  the  Falmouth  Hall  again, 

And  the  heart  ofCamilla  be  light  ? 

'Twas  the  middle  watch  by  the  castle  clock, 
'Twas  the  middle  watch,  and  the  plumed  cock 

Crew  shrilly  as  cock  may  crow, 
When  a  voice  to  my  lady  did  sweetly  call, 
Who  lovingly  leant  from  the  castle  wall, 

As  if  to  her  lord  below. 

'Twas  the  middle  watch  of  the  chilly  night, 

In  the  time  of  the  leaflet's  fall, 
When  my  lady  appeared  in  her  robes  of  white, 
And  the  watch-dog  woke  as  in  sudden  fright, 

And  howled  from  the  Falmouth  Hall. 

But  the  tale  may  be  of  the  lowly  born, 
For  the  lip  of  the  lady  was  curled  in  scorn 

At  the  breath  of  the  lightest  word, 
Though  the  picture  that  lay  on  her  heart  at  morn 

Was  not  of  her  absent  lord. 

The  legends  of  Falmouth  mansion  say 
Sir  Philip  perished  in  some  dark  fray, 

For  a  bird,  with  a  blood-red  plume, 
Oft  came  in  the  mists  of  the  morning  gray 
Where  the  ancient  lord  of  the  mansion  lay, 

And  sang  on  the  cross  of  the  tomb. 


GLENLY  MOOR. 

THE  summer's  golden  glow  was  fled, 
In  eve's  dim  arms  the  day  lay  dead, 
Over  the  dreary  woodland  wind, 
The  first  pale  star  looked  out  and  smiled 
On  Glenly  Moor. 

Nor  lonely  call  of  lingering  bird, 
Nor  insect's  cheerful  hum  was  heard, 
Nor  traveller  in  the  closing  day 
Humming  along  the  grass-grown  way 
Of  Glenly  Moor. 

No  voice  was  in  the  sleepy  rills, 
No  light  shone  down  the  village  hills, 
And  withered  on  their  blackening  stalks 
Hung  the  last  flowers  along  the  walks 
Of  Glenly  Moor. 

Within  a  thin,  cold  drift  of  light 
The  buds  of  the  wild  rose  hung  bright, 
Where  broken  turf  and  new-set  stone 
Told  of  a  pale  one  left  alone 
In  Glenly  Moor. 


162  GLENLT     MOOR. 

All  the  clear  splendor  of  the  skies 
Was  gathered  from  her  meek  blue  eyes, 
And  therefore  shadows  dark  and  cold 
Hang  over  valley,  hill,  and  wold 
In  Glenly  Moor. 

And  the  winged  morning  from  the  blue 
Winnowing  the  crimson  on  the  dew 
May  ne'er  unlock  the  hands  so  white 
That  lie  beneath  that  drift  of  light 
In  Glenly  Moor. 


ROSEMARY  HILL. 

'TWAS  the  night  he  had  promised  to  meet  me, 

To  meet  me  on  Rosemary  Hill,    - 
And  I  said,  at  the  rise  of  the  eve-star, 

The  tryst  he  will  haste  to  fulfil. 

Then  I  looked  to  the  elm-bordered  valley, 
Where  the  undulous  mist  whitely  lay, 

But  I  saw  not  the  steps  of  my  lover 
Dividing  its  beauty  away. 

The  eve-star  rose  red  o'er  the  tree-tops, 
The  night-dews  fell  heavy  and  chill, 

And  wings  ceased  to  beat  through  the  shadows — 
The  shadows  of  Rosemary  Hill. 

I  heard  not,  through  hoping  and  fearing, 

The  whip-poor-will's  musical  cry, 
Nor  saw  I  the  pale  constellations 

That  swept  the  blue  reach  of  the  sky. 


164  ROSEMARY     HILL. 

But  fronting  despair  like  a  martyr, 
I  pled  with  my  heart  to  be  still, 

As  round  me  fell,  deeper  and  darker, 
The  shadows  of  Rosemary  Hill. 

On  a  bough  that  was  withered  and  dying, 
I  leaned  as  the  midnight  grew  dumb, 

And  told  my  heart,  over  and  over, 
How  often  he  said  he  would  come. 

He  is  hunting,  I  said,  in  dim  Arnau — 

He  was  there  with  his  dogs  all  day  long — 

And  is  weary  with  winging  the  plover, 
Or  stayed  by  the  throstle's  sweet  song. 

Then  heard  I  the  whining  of  Eldrich, 
Of  Eldrich  so  blind  and  so  old, 

With  sleek  hide  embrowned  like  the  lion's, 
And  brindled  and  freckled  with  gold. 

How  the  pulse  of  despair  in  my  bosom 

Leapt  back  to  a  joyous  thrill, 
As  I  went  down  to  meet  my  dear  lover, 

Down  fleetly  from  Rosemary  Hill. 

More  near  seemed  the  whining  of  Eldrich, 
More  loudly  my  glad  bosom  beat ; 

When  lo !  I  beheld  by  the  moonlight, 
A  newly  made  grave  at  my  feet. 

And  silently,  sorrowfully  drifting, 
Away  from  love's  sheltering  ark, 

I  tore  from  my  forehead  the  lilies, 
-And  trusted  my  hopes  to  the  dark. 


ROSEMARY     HILL.  165 

For  when  with  the  passion-vine  lovely, 

That  grew  by  the  stone  at  the  head, 
The  length  of  the  grave  I  had  measured, 

I  knew  that  my  lover  was  dead. 

Seven  summers  the  sunshine  has  fallen 

Since  that  weary  night-time  of  ill, 
But  my  heart  still  is  veiled  with  a  shadow — 

The  shadow  of  Kosemary  Hill. 


ADELIED. 

UNPRAISED  but  of  my  simple  rhymes 
She  pined  from  life,  and  died, 

The  softest  of  all  April  times 
That  storm  and  shine  divide. 

The  swallow  twittered  within  reach 

Impatient  of  the  rain, 
And  the  red  blossoms  of  the  peach 

Blew  down  against  the  pane. 

When,  feeling  that  life's  wasting  sands 

Were  wearing  into  hours, 
She  took  her  long  locks  in  her  hands 

And  gathered  out  the  flowers. 

The  day  was  nearly  on  the  close, 

And  on  the  eave  in  sight, 
The  doves  were  gathered  in  white  rows 

With  bosoms  to  the  light ; 

When  first  my  sorrow  flowed  to  rhymes 

For  gentle  Adelied — 
The  light  of  thrice  five  April-times 

Had  kissed  her  when  she  died. 


MULBERRY  HILL. 

OH,  sweet  was  the  eve  when  I  came  from  the  mill, 
Adown  the  green  windings  of  Mulberry  hill : 
My  heart  like  a  bird  with  its  throat  all  in  tune, 
That  sings  in  the  beautiful  bosom  of  June. 

For  there,  at  her  spinning,  beneath  a  broad  tree, 

By  a  rivulet  shining  and  blue  as  the  sea, 

First  I  saw  my  Mary — her  tiny  feet  Bare, 

And  the  buds  of  the  sumach  among  her  black  hair. 

They  called  me  a  bold  enough  youth,  and  I  would 
Have  kept  the  name  honestly  earned,  if  I  could ; 
But,  somehow,  the  song  I  had  whistled  was  hushed, 
And,  spite  of  my  manhood,  I  felt  that  I  blushed. 

I  would  tell  you,  but  words  cannot  paint  my  delight, 
When  she  gave  the  red  buds  for  a  garland  of  white, 
When  her  cheek  with  soft  blushes — but  no,  'tis  in  vain  ; 
Enough  that  I  loved,  and  she  loved  me  again. 

Three  summers  have  come  and  gone  by  with  their  charms, 
And  a  cherub  of  purity  smiles  in  my  arms, 
With  lips  like  the  rosebud  and  locks  softly  light 
As  the  flax  which  my  Mary  was  spinning  that  night. 


1C8  MULBERRY     HILL. 

And  in  the  dark  shadows  of  Mulberry  Hill, 

By  the  grass-covered  road  where  I  came  from  the  mill, 

And  the  rivulet  shining  and  blue  as  the  sea, 

My  Mary  lies  sleeping  beneath  the  broad  tree. 


SONG. 

COME  to  my  bosom,  thou  beautiful  bird, 
My  soul  with  thy  seraph-like  singing  is  stirred  : 
Say'st  thou  we  never  more,  never  shall  part — 
Light  of  the  wilderness,  joy  of  my  heart  ? 
Are  thy  capricious  wings  never  to  fly  1 
Sing  me  the  blessed  words — sing  till  I  die ! 

Oh,  I  have  thought  of  thee,  long  weary  years, 
Nursing  thy  memory  only  with  tears  ; 
My  heart  dreaming  dreams  of  thee,  sweeter  than  dew, 
Beating,  where  thousands  were,  only  for  you : 
Said'st  thou  thou  lovest  me  in  thy  soft  strain  ? 
Tell  me  the  blessed  words,  tell  them  again ! 

Spring  in  her  robe  of  Light,  Summer  with  flowers, 
Autumn  with  golden  fruit,  Winter's  lone  hours  ; 
These  on  their  fleeting  wings  came  and  went  by, 
Finding  their  welcoming  only  a  sigh. 
Say'st  thou  thou  lovest  me  fondly  and  true  ? 
Tell  me  the  blessed  words — tell  them  anew. 
The  earth,  like  an  angel,  sits  mantled  in  light, 
The  skies  are  grown  bluer,  the  stars  are  more  bright; 


170  SONG. 

And  leaves  by  the  breezes  are  freshlier  stirred, 
Because  of  thy  singing,  my  beautiful  bird : 
Surely  such  happiness  soon  will  be  o'er — 
Tell  me  the  blessed  words,  tell  them  once  more ! 

Earth  henceforth  has  nothing  of  sorrow  for  me ; 
My  bosom,  sweet  minstrel,  thy  pillow  shall  be  j 
The  goldenest  morning  that  ever  has  smiled, 
Were  dim  in  thy  presence,  young  fawn  of  the  wild : 
Oh,  if  your  heart  for  me  beat  as  you  say, 
Tell  me  the  blessed  words,  tell  them  for  aye  ! 


LIVE  AND  HELP  LIVE. 

MIGHTY  in  faith  and  hope,  why  art  thou  sad ! 
Sever  the  green  withes,  look  up  and  be  glad ! 
See  all  around  thee,  below  and  above, 
The  beautiful,  bountiful  gifts  of  God's  love ! 

What  though  our  hearts  beat  with  death's  sullen  waves? 
What  though  the  green  sod  is  broken  with  graves  1 
The  sweet  hopes  that  never  shall  fade  from  their  bloom, 
Make  their  dim  birth-chamber  down  in  the  tomb ! 

Parsee  or  Christianman,  bondman  or  free, 
Loves  and  humanities  still  are  for  thee ; 
Some  little  good  every  day  to  achieve, 
Some  slighted  spirit  no  longer  to  grieve. 

In  the  tents  of  the  desert,  alone  on  the  sea, 
On  the  far-away  hills  with  the  starry  Chaldee ; 
Condemned  and  in  prison,  dishonored,  reviled, 
God's  arm  is  around  thee,  and  thou  art  his  child. 

Mine  be  the  lip  ever  truthful  and  bold  ; 
Mine  be  the  heart,  never  careless  nor  cold ; 
A  faith  humbly  trustful,  a  life  free  from  blame — 
All  else  is  unstable  as  flax  in  the  flame. 


172  LIVE     AND     HELP     LIVE. 

And  while  the  soft  skies  are  so  starry  and  blue ; 
And  while  the  wide  earth  is  so  fresh  with  God's  dew, 
Though  all  around  me  the  sad  sit  and  sigh, 
I  will  be  glad  that  I  live  and  must  die. 


DOOMED.   • 

• 

OH  demon  waiting  o'er  the  grave, 

To  plead  against  thy  power  were  vain  ; 
Turning  from  heaven,  I  blindly  gave 

My  soul  to  everlasting  pain. 
Take  me  and  torture  me  at  will — 

My  hands  I  will  not  lift  for  aye, 
The  flames  that  die  not,  nor  can  kill, 

To  wind  from  my  poor  heart  away ; 
For  I  have  borne  and  still  can  bear 

The  pain  of  sorrow's  wretched  storms, 
But,  love,  how  shall  1  hush  the  prayer 

For  the  sweet  shelter  of  thy  arms  ? 

Oh  home !  no  more  your  dimpling  rills 

Would  cool  this  forehead  from  its  pain  ; 
Flowers,  blowing  down  the  western  hills, 

Ye  may  not  fill  my  lap  again ; 
Time,  speed  with  wilder,  stormier  wings, 

The  smile  that  lights  my  lip  to-day, 
As  like  the  ungenial  fire  that  springs 

From  the  pale  ashes  of  decay. 
O  !  lost,  like  some  fair  planet-beam, 

In  clouds  that  tempests  over-brim, 
How  could  the  splendor  of  a  dream 

Make  all  the  future  life  so  dim  ! 
8 


WEAEINESS. 

GENTLE,  gentle  sisters  twain, 
I  am  sad  with  toil  and  pain, 
Hoping,  struggling,  all  in  vain, 
And  would  be  with  you  again. 

Sick  and  weary,  let  me  go 
To  our  homestead,  old  and  low, 
Where  the  cool,  fresh  breezes  blow — 
There  I  shall  be  well,  I  know. 

Violets,  gold,  and  white,  and  blue, 
Sprout  up  sweetly  through  the  dew — 
Lilacs  now  are  budding,  too — 
Oh,  I  pine  to  be  with  you ! 

I  am  lonely  and  imblest — 
I  am  weary,  and  would  rest 
Where  all  things  are  brightest,  best, 
In  the  lovely,  lovely  West. 


TO  ELMINA. 

SOFT  dweller  in  the  sunset  light, 

How  pleads  my  heavy  heart  for  thee, 

That  some  good  angel's  hand  to-night 
Gather  thy  sweet  love  back  from  me. 

For  down  the  lonesome  way  I  tread, 
No  summer  flower  will  ever  bloom — 

All  hope  is  lost,  all  faith  is  dead — 

Thou  must  not,  canst  not,  share  my  doom. 

Nay,  let  me  send  no  shadow  chill 
To  the  blue  beauty  of  thy  sky  ; 

Fain  would  I  shape  my  song  to  still        • 
Thy  sad  fears  like  a  lullaby. 

Not  in  thy  memory  would  I  seem 
As  one  that  wo  and  sorrow  claim — 

Think  of  me,  dear  one,  as  a  dream 
That  faded  when  the  morning  came. 


HOMESICK. 

THE  lamps  are  all  lighted — how  brightly  they  gleam ! 
The  music  is  flowing,  soft  stream  upon  stream, 
While  youths  and  fair  maidens,  untroubled  with  care, 
Half  blush  as  they  whisper,  How  happy  we  are ! 

Well,  braid  up  your  tresses  with  gems  as  you  may, 
Fly  light  through  the  dances,  and  smile  and  be  gay ; 
The  glow  of  the  roses,  the  flow  of  the  wine, 
Are  not  for  a  bosom  so  weary  as  mine. 

O  give  me  a  cottage  half-hid  in  the  leaves, 
With  vines  on  the  windows,  and  birds  on  the  eaves, 
And  a  heart  there  whose  warm  tide  shall  flow  like  the  sea, 
But  never,  O  never,  for  any  but  me ! 


KINDNESS. 

OF  homely  fern  and  yellow  fennel  flowers 

Weaving  up  fillets,  dreamingly  I  lay 
In  the  dim  arms  of  lonesome  twilight  hours 

When  first  dear  kindness  crossed  my  friendless  way. 

Then  felt  I,  hushed  with  wonder  and  sweet  awe, 
As  with  his  weary  banners  round  him  furled 

Felt  ocean's  wanderer,  when  first  he  saw 
The  pale-lipt  billows  kissing  a  new  world ! 

The  joy,  the  rapture  of  the  glad  surprise, 

Haply  some  heart  may  know  that  inly  grieves, 

Some  sad  Ruth  bowing  from  love-speaking  eyes 
Her  trembling  bosom  over  alien  sheaves. 


MY  MOTHER. 

'TwAs  in  the  autumn's  dreary  close, 

A  long,  long  time  ago ; 
The  berries  of  the  brier-rose 

Hung  bright  above  the  snow, 
And  night  had  spread  a  shadow  wild 

About  the  earth  and  sky, 
When  calling  me  her  orphan  child, 

She  said  that  she  must  die. 

She  rests  within  the  quiet  tomb, 

The  narrow  and  the  chill — 
The  window  of  our  cabin  home 

Looks  out  upon  the  hill. 
Oh,  when  the  world  seems  wild  and  wide, 

And  friends  to  love  me  few, 
I  think  of  how  she  lived  and  died, 

And  gather  strength  anew. 


Climrnnnk; 

OR, 

RECOLLECTIONS  OF  OUR  HOME  IN  THE  WEST, 

BY  ALICE  CAREY. 

Illustrated  5y  DAKLET.     One  vol.,  V2mo. 


"  We  do  not  hesitate  to  predict  for  these  sketches  a  wide  popularity. 
They  bear  the  true  stamp  of  genius — simple,  natural,  truthful — and  evince 
a  keen  sense  of  the  humor  and  pathos,  of  the  comedy  and  tragedy,  of  life 
in  the  country.  No  one  who  has  ever  read  it  can  forget  the  sad  and  beau 
tiful  story  of  Mary  Wildermings ;  its  weird  fancy,  tenderness,  and  beauty  ; 
its  touching  description  of  the  emotions  of  a  sick  and  suffering  human  spirit, 
and  its  exquisite  rural  pictures.  The  moral  tone  of  Alice  Carey's  writings 
is  unobjectionable  always." — J.  G.  WHITTIEII. 

"  Miss  Carey's  experience  has  been  in  the  midst  of  rural  occupations,  m 
the  interior  of  Ohio.  Every  word  here  reflects  this  experience,  in  the  rar 
est  shapes,  and  most  exquisite  hues.  The  opinion  now  appears  to  be  com 
monly  entertained,  that  Alice  Carey  is  decidedly  the  first  of  our  female  au 
thors;  an  opinion  which  Fitz-Greene  Halleck,  J.  G.  Whittier,  Dr.  Griswold, 
Wm.  D.  Gallagher,  Bayard  Taylor,  with  many  others,  have  on  various 
occasions  endorsed." — Illustrated  News. 

"  If  we  look  at  the  entire  catalogue  of  female  writers  of  prose  fiction  in 
this  country,  we  shall  find  no  one  who  approaches  Alice  Carey  in  the  best 
characteristics  of  genius.  Like  all  genuine  authors  she  has  peculiarities; 
her  hand  is  detected  as  unerringly  as  that  of  Poe  or  Hawthorne ;  as  much 
as  they  she  is  apart  from  others  and  above  others ;  and  her  sketches  of 
country  life  must,  we  think,  be  admitted  to  be  superior  even  to  those  delight 
ful  tales  of  Miss  Mitford,  which,  in  a  similar  line,  are  generally  acknowledged 
<o  be  equal  to  anything  done  in  England." — International  Magazine. 

"  Alice  Carey  has  perhaps  the  strongest  imagination  among  the  women 
of  this  country.  Her  writings  will  live  longer  than  those  of  any  other 
woman  among  us." — American  Whig  Review. 

"  Alice  Carey  has  a  fine,  rich,  and  purely  original  genius.  Her  country 
stories  are  almost  unequaled." — Knickerbocker  Magazine. 

"  Miss  Carey's  sketches  are  remarkably  fresh,  and  exquisite  in  delicacy, 
humor,  and  pathos.  She  is  booked  for  immortality." — Home  Journal. 

"The  Times  speaks  of  Alice  Carey  as  standing  at  the  head  of  the  living 
female  writers  of  America.  We  go  even  farther  in  our  favorable  judgment, 
and  express  the  opinion  that  among  those  living  or  dead,  she  has  had  no 
equal  in  this  country  ;  and  we  know  of  few  in  the  annals  of  English  litera 
ture  who  have  exhibited  superior  gifts  of  real  poetic  genius." — The  (Portland, 
Me.}  Eclectic. 


MISS   CHESEBRO'S  NEW   WORK. 

DREAM-LAND  BY  DAYLIGHT; 

A 

PANORAMA  OF  ROMANCE. 

BY  CAROLINE  CHESEBRO. 
Illustrated  by  DAELEY.     One  vol.,  12m0. 


"  These  simple  and  beautiful  stories  are  all  highly  endued  with  an  exquisite 
perception  of  natural  beauty,  with  which  is  combined  an  appreciative  sense  of  its 
relation  to  the  highest  moral  emotions." — Albany  State  Register. 

"  There  is  a  fine  vein  of  pure  and  holy  thought  pervading  every  tale  in  the  vol 
ume  ;  and  every  lover  of  the  beautiful  and  true  will  feel  while  perusing  it  that 
he  is  conversing  with  a  kindred  spirit." — Albany  Evening  Atlas. 

"  The  journey  through  Dream-Land  will  be  found  full  of  pleasure  ;  and  when 
one  returns  from  it,  he  will  have  his  mind  filled  with  good  suggestions  for  practi 
cal  life." — Rochester  Democrat. 

"  The  anticipations  we  have  had  of  this  promised  book  are  more  than  realized. 
It  is  a  collection  of  beautiful  sketches,  in  which  the  cultivated  imagination  of  the 
authoress  has  interwoven  the  visions  of  Dream-Land  with  the  realities  of  life." 

Ontario  Messenger. 

"  The  dedication,  in  its  sweet  and  touching  purity  of  emotion,  is  itself  an  ear 
nest  of  the  many  'blessed  household  voices'  that  come  up  from  the  heart's  clear 
depth,  throughout  the  book." — Ontario  Repository. 

"  Gladly  do  we  greet  this  floweret  in  the  field  of  our  literature,  for  it  is  fragrant 
with  sweets  and  bright  with  hues  that  mark  it  to  be  of  Heaven's  own  planting." 

Courier  and  Enquirer. 

"  There  is  a  depth  of  sentiment  and  feeling  not  ordinarily  met  with,  and  some 
of  the  noblest  faculties  and  affections  of  man's  nature  are  depicted  and  illustrated 
by  the  skilful  pen  of  the  authoress." — Churchman. 

"  This  collection  of  stories  fully  sustains  her  previous  reputation,  and  also  gives 
a  brilliant  promise  of  future  eminence  in  this  department  of  literature." 

Tribune. 

"  We  find  in  this  volume  unmistakeable  evidences  of  originality  of  mind,  an 
almost  superfluous  depth  of  reflection  for  the  department  of  composition  to  which 
it  is  devoted,  a  rare  facility  in  seizing  the  multiform  aspects  of  nature,  and  a  still 
rarer  power  of  giving  them  the  form  and  hue  of  imagination,  without  destroying 
their  identity." — Harper's  Magazine. 

"  In  all  the  productions  of  Miss  Chesebro's  pen  is  evident  a  delicate  perception 
of  the  relation  of  natural  beauty  to  the  moral  emotions,  and  a  deep  love  of  the  true 
and  the  beautiful  in  art  and  nature." — Day-Book. 


THE    WORKS 

OF 

£  D  G  A  R    ALLAN     POE: 

WITH  NOTICES  OF  HIS  LIFE  AND  GENIUS, 

BY  J.  R.  LOWELL,  N.  P.  WILLIS,  AND  R.  W.  GRISWOLD 

In  two  Volumes,  12/rao.,  with  a  POBTRAIT  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 

PaiCE,  Two  DOLLARS  AUD  FIFTT  CENTS. 


NOTICES  OK  TUK  PRESS. 

"  The  edition  is  published  for  the  benefit  of  his  mother-in-law,  Mrs.  Maria 
Clemm,  for  whose  sake  we  may  wish  it  the  fullest  success.  It  however,  de 
serves,  and  will  undoubtedly  obtain,  a  large  circulation  from  the  desire  eo  many 
will  feel  to  lay  by  a  memorial  of  this  singularly-gifted  writer  and  unfortunate 
man." — Philadelphia  North.  American. 

"  Poe's  writings  are  distinguished  for  vigorous  and  minute  analysis,  and" 
the  skill  with  which  he  has  employed  the  strange  fascination  of  mystery  and 
terror.  There  is  an  air  of  reality  in  all  his  narrations — a  dwelling  upon  partic 
ulars,  and  a  faculty  of  interesting  you  in  them  such  as  is  possessed  by  few 
writers  except  those  who  are  giving  their  own  individual  experiences.  The 
reader  can  scarcely  divest  his  mind,  even  in  reading  the  most  fanciful  of  his 
Btories,  that  the  events  of  it  have  not  actually  occurred,  and  the  characters  had 
a  real  existence." — Philadelphia  Ledger. 

'•  We  need  not  say  that  these  volumes  will  be  found  rich  in  intellectual 
excitements,  and  abounding  in  remarkable  specimens  of  vigorous,  beautiful, 
and  highly  suggestive  composition  ;  they  are  all  that  remains  to  us  of  a  man 
whose  uncommon  genius  it  would  be  folly  to  deny." — N.  Y.  Tribune. 

"Mr.  Poe's  intellectual  character — his  genius — is  stamped  upon  all  his  produc 
tions,  and  we  shall  place  these  his  works  in  the  library  among  those  books  not 
to  be  parted  with." — N.  Y.  Commercial  Advertiser. 

"  These  works  have  a  funereal  cast  as  well  in  the  melancholy  portrait  pre 
fixed  aud  the  title,  as  in  the  three  pallbearing  editors  who  accompany  them 
in  public.  They  are  the  memorial  of  a  singular  man,  possessed  perhaps  of  as 
great  mere  literary  ingenuity  and  mechanical  dexterity  of  style  and  manage 
ment  as  any  the  country  has  produced.  Some  of  the  tales  in  the  collection 
are  as  complete  and  admirable  as  anything  of  their  kind  in  the  language." — 
Military  Review. 

"  A  complete  collection  of  the  works  of  one  of  the  most  talented  and  singu 
lar  men  of  the  day.  Mr.  Poe  was  a  genius,  but  an  erratic  one — he  was  a  comet 
or  a  meteor,  not  a  star  or  sun.  His  genius  was  that  almost  contradiction  of 
terms,  an  analytic  genius.  Genius  is  nearly  universally  synthetic — but  Poe  was 
an  exception  to  all  rules.  Ho  would  build  up  a  poem  as  a  bricklayer  builds  a 
wall ;  or  rather,  he  would  begin  at  the  top  and  build  downward  to  the  base ; 
and  yet,  into  the  poem  BO  manufactured,  he  would  manage  to  breathe  the  breath 
of  life.  And  this  fact  proved  that  it  was  not  all  a  manufacture — that  the  poem 
was  also,  to  a  certain  degree,  a  growth,  a  real  plant,  taking  root  in  the  mind, 
and  watered  by  the  springs  of  the  soul." — Saturday  Post. 

"  We  have  just  spent  some  delightful  hours  in  looking  over  these  two  vol 
umes,  which'  contain  one  of  the  most  pleasing  additions  to  our  literature  with 
which  we  have  met  for  a  long  time.  They  comprise  the  works  of  the  late 
Edgar  A.  Poe — pieces  which  for  years  have  been  going  '  the  rounds  of  the 
press,'  and  are  now  first  collected  when  their  author  is  beyond  the  reach  of 
humar  praise.  We  feel,  however,  that  these  productions  will  live.  They 
bear  t'ae  stamp  of  true  genius  ;  and  if  their  reputation  begins  with  a  '  fit  audi 
ence  '.h'jugh  few,'  the  circle  will  be  constantly  widening,  and  they  will  retain  M 
prominent  place  in  our  literature." — Rev.  Dr.  Kip 


JUST  PUBLISHED, 

In  one  Volume,  12/wo.,  cloth,  PKICK  $1.25, 
THE 

NIGHT-SIDE  OF  NATURE ; 

OR, 

GHOSTS  AND  GHOST-SEERS. 

BY  CATHERINE  CROWE, 

AUTHOR    OP    "SUSAJT    HOPLET,"    "  ITILT    DAW8O1T,"    ETC. 


OPINIONS  OF  THE   PRESS. 

This  book  treats  of  allegorical  dreams,  presentiments,  trances,  apparitions, 
troubled  spirits,  haunted  houses,  etc.,  and  will  be  read  with  interest  by  many 
because  it  comes  from  a  source  laying  claim  to  considerable  talent,  and  ia 
written  by  one  who  really  believes  all  she  says,  and  urges  her  reasonings  with 
a  good  deal  of  earnestness. — Albany  Argus. 

It  embraces  a  vast  collection  of  marvellous  and  supernatural  stories  of  su 
pernatural  occurrences  out  of  the  ordinary  course  of  events. — N.  Y.  Globe. 

Miss  Crowe  has  proved  herself  a  careful  and  most  industrious  compiler. 
She  has  gathered  materials  from  antiquity  and  from  modern  times,  and  gives 
to  English  and  American  readers  the  ghost-stories  that  used  to  frighten  the 
young  ones  of  Greece  and  Rome,  as  well  as  those  that  accomplish  a  similar 
end  in  Germany  and  other  countries  of  modern  Europe. — Phila.  Bulletin. 

It  is  written  in  a  philosophical  spirir. — Philadelphia  Courier. 

This  queer  volume  has  excited  considerable  attention  in  England.  It  is  not 
a  catchpenny  affair,  but  is  an  intelligent  inquiry  into  the  asserted  facts  respect 
ing  ghosts  and  apparitions,  and  a  psychological  discussion  upon  the  reasona 
bleness  of  a  belief  in  their  existence. — Boston  Post. 

In  this  remarkable  work,  Miss  Crowe,  who  writes  with  the  vigor  and  grace 
of  a  woman  of  strong  sense  and  high  cultivation,  collects  the  most  remarkable 
and  best  authenticated  accounts,  traditional  and  recorded,  of  preternatural  vis 
itations  and  appearances. — Boston  Transcript. 

This  is  a  copious  chronicle  of  what  we  are  compelled  to  believe  authentic 
instances  of  communication  between  the  material  and  spiritual  world.  It-  is 
written  in  a  clear,  vigorous,  and  fresh  style,  and  keeps  the  reader  in  a  con 
stant  excitement,  yet  without  resorting  to  claptrap. — Day-Book. 

The  book  is  tilled  with  facts,  which  are  not  to  be  disputed  except  by  actual 
proof.  They  have  long  been  undisputed  before  the  world.  The  class  of  facts 
are  mainly  of  a  kind  thought  by  most  persons  to  be  "  mysterious ;"  but  there 
will  be  found  much  in  the  book  calculated  to  throw  light  upon  the  heretofore 
mysterious  phenomena. — Providence  Mirror. 

This  book  is  one  which  appears  in  a  very  opportune  time  to  command  at 
tention,  and  should  be  read  by  all  who  are  desirous  of  information  in  regard 
to  things  generally  called  mysterious,  relating  to  the  manifestations  of  the 
spirit  out  of  man  and  in  him.—  Traveller. 

This  is  not  only  a  curious  but  also  a  very  able  work.  It  is  one  of  the 
most  interesting  books  of  the  season — albeit  the  reader's  hair  will  occasional 
ly  rise  on  end  as  he  turns  over  the  pages,  especially  if  he  reads  alone  far  into 
the  night— Zion's  Herald. 

A  very  appropriate  work  for  these  days  of  mysterious  rappings,  but  one 
which  shows  that  the  author  has  given  the  subjects  upon  which  she  treats 
considerable  study,  and  imparts  the  knowledge  derived  in  a  concise  manner. 
— Boston  Evening  Gazette. 

This  is  undoubtedly  the  most  remarkable  book  of  the  month,  and  can  not 
fail  to  interest  all  classes  of  people. —  Water- Cure  Journal. 

To  the  lovers  of  the  strange  and  mysterious  in  nature,  this  volume  will  pos" 
«ess  an  attractive  interest— N.  T.  Truth-Teller. 
The  lovers  of  the  marvellous  will  delight  in  its  perusal..— Com.  Advertiser 


NOTICES    OF    EPISODES    OF    INSECT    LIFE. 

"  A  more  charming  book,  fresh  with  the  fragrance  of  the  country  air  and  musical 
with  the  rustle  of  insect  wings,  is  not  likely  to  be  seen  often.  In  the  clearness  of  its 
type,  the  beauty  of  the  illustrations,  and  the  whole  manner  of  its  presentment,  the 
"  Episodes"  fairly  gives  the  laural  to  its  tasteful  and  enterprising  publisher." — Lit.  World. 

"  There  is  a  moral,  we  may  Fay  a  religious  lesson,  inculcated  in  every  chapter  of  this 
book." — Watchman  and  Reflector. 

"The  style  is  easy,  flowing,  natural,  and  happy.  The  ideas  are  such  that  the  reader 
will  arise  from  their  perusal,  a  '  wiser  and  a  better  man.'  " — Courant. 

"  We  defy  any  one  to  rise  from  its  perusal,  without  thanking  the  book  for  many  new 
ideas,  added  to  one's  previous  stock  of  information,  as  well  as  feeling  better,  and  more 
kindly  disposed,  for  the  lessons  of  humanity  and  benevolence  it  teaches." — Bost.  Courier. 

"  A  most  attractive  work  to  all  ages,  for  while  it  is  amusing  and  playful  in  its  language, 
it  is  replete  with  valuable  information.  It  might  be  called  Science  made  pleasure,  or 
Fact  made  fanciful.  A  finer  specimen  of  typography  is  rarely  seen,  and  we  commend 
it  to  all  those  who  would  see  in  nature  constant  illustrations  of  the  power  and  goodness 
of  its  great  Creator." — Newark  Daily  Advertiser. 

"  Wonderfully  beautiful,  graceful,  and  entertaining.  Children  can  read  it  with  un 
derstanding,  and  be  enraptured  by  it:  and  this  is  no  email  thing  to  say  of  a  work  not 
especially  intended  for  juveniles." — Ontario  Repository. 

"  By  a  happy  combination  of  taste  and  knowledge — science  and  poetry,  with  anec 
dote  and  description,  the  naturalist  and  the  mere  reader  for  amusement  are  equally 
gratified.  It  is  a  book  for  the  library, — and  just  the  thing  as  a  companion  for  a  journey, 
or  the  winter  evening  fireside.  It  is  well  adapted  for  the  sick-chamber  too,  and  the 
weary  invalid  as  he  reads  may  fancy  that  he  smells  again  the  sweet  fragrance  of  spring 
flowers,  and  listens  to  the  hum  of  a  bright  summer's  day  ;  and,  not  least  of  all,  the  ten 
dency  of  these  beautiful  volumes,  is  to  elevate  our  conceptions  of  the  grandeur  and  love 
of  the  Almighty  Greater."—  Old  Colony  Memorial. 

"This  is  a  work  of  rare  and  varied  beauties.  It  is  beautiful  within  and  without; 
beautiful  in  conception  and  in  execution  ;  beautiful  as  it  comes  from  the  hands  of  the 
author,  the  engraver,  the  printer  and  the  binder." — Albany  Argus. 

"  This  is  one  of  the  most  tasteful  books  of  the  season,  very  entertaining  and  amusing, 
and  at  the  same  time  the  work  of  an  accomplished  naturalist." — Christian  Register. 

"The  author  has  availed  himself  not  only  of  the  greater  abundance  of  material  which 
the  summer  months  supply,  but  also  of  the  brighter  hues  afforded  by  the  summer  sun 
shine,  for  the  enrichment  of  his  glowing  descriptions,  which  become  gorgeous  while 
reflecting  a  parti-colored  glory  that  eclipses  the  splendor  of  Solomon." — Journ.  of  Com, 

No  work  published  during  the  year,  has  received  so  extensive  and  favorable  notices 
from  the  British  Quarterlies  and  Newspapers  as  the  Episodes  of  Insect  Life.  A  few  are 
here  given  as  specimens  of  the  whole. 

"  The  whole  pile  of  Natural  History— fable,  poetry,  theory,  and  fact — is  stuck  over 
with  quaint  apothegms  and  shrewd  maxims  deduced,  for  the  benefit  of  man,  from  the 
contemplation  of  such  tiny  monitors  as  gnats  and  moths.  Altogether,  the  book  is  curi 
ous  and  interesting,  quaint  and  clever,  genial  and  well-informed." — Morning  Chronicle. 

"We  have  seldom  been  in  company  with  so  entertaining  a  guide  to  the  Insect 
World." — Athenaum. 

"  Rich  veins  of  humor  in  a  groundwork  of  solid,  yet  entertaining  information.  Al 
though  lightness  and  amusement  can  find  subject-matter  in  every  page,  the  under  cur 
rent  of  the  "  Episodes"  is  substance  and  accurate  information." — Ladies'  Newspaper. 

"  A  history  of  many  of  the  more  remarkable  tribes  and  species,  with  a  graphic  and 
imaginative  coloring,  often  equally  original  and  happy,  and  accompanied  both  by  accu 
rate  figures  of  species,  and  ingenious  fanciful  vignettes." — Annual  Address  of  the  Presi 
dent  of  the  Entomological  Society. 

"  This  second  series  of  "  Episodes"  is  even  more  delightful  than  its  predecessor. 
Never  havp  entomological  lessons  been  given  in  a  happier  strain.  Young  and  old,  wise 
and  simple,  grave  and  gay,  can  not  turn  over  its  pages  without  deriving  pleasure  and 
information ." — Sun. 

"  The  headpiece  illustrations  of  each  chapter  are  beautiful  plates  of  the  insects  under 
description  in  all  their  stages,  capitally  grouped,  and  with  a  scenic  background  full  of 
playful  fancy  :  while  the  tailpieces  form  a  series  of  quaint  vignettes,  some  of  which  are 
especially  clever." — Atlas. 

"  The  book  includes  solid  instruction  as  well  as  genial  and  captivating  mirth  Th« 
fcientific  knowledge  of  the  writer  is  thoroughly  reliable.— Examiner. 


For  Schools,  Academies,  and  Self-Instruction 

THE 

AMERICAN     DRAWING-BOOK. 

BY  JOHN  G.  CHAPMAN,  N.  A. 

THIS  WORK  will  be  published  in  PARTS  ;  in  the  course  of  which — 

PRIMARY  INSTRUCTIONS  AND  RUDIMENTS  OF  DRAWING- 
DRAWING  FROM  NATURE  — MATERIALS  AND  METHODS: 
PERSPECTIVE  — COMPOSITION  — LANDSCAPE  — FIGURES,  ETC  : 
DRAWING,  AS  APPLICABLE  TO  THE  MECHANIC  ARTS: 
PAINTING  IN  OIL  AND  WATER  COLORS: 
THE  PRINCIPLES  OF  LIGHT  AND  SHADE: 
EXTERNAL    ANATOMY  OF  THE    HUMAN    FORM,  AND  COMPARATIVE 

ANATOMY: 
THE  VARIOUS  METHODS  OF  ETCHING,  ENGRAVING,  MODELLING,  Etc. 

Will  be  severally  treated,  separately ;  so  that,  as  far  as  practicable,  each 
Part  will  be  complete  in  itself,  and  form,  in  the  whole,  "  a  Manual  of 
Information  sufficient  for  all  the  purposes  of  the  Amateur,  and  Basis 
of  Study  for  the  Professional  Artist,  as  well  as  a  valuable  Assistant 
to  Teachers  in  Pullic  and  Private  Schools  ;"  to  whom  it  is  especially 
recommended,  as  a  work  destined  to  produce  a  revolution  in  the  sys 
tem  of  popular  education,  by  making  the  Arts  of  Design  accessible 
and  familiar  to  all,  from  the  concise  and  intelligible  manner  in  which 
the  subject  is  treated  throughout. 

The  want  of  such  a  wcirk,  has  been  the  great  cause  of  neglect  in  this 
important  branch  of  education  ;  and  this  want  is  at  once  and  fully  sup 
plied  by  the  — 

AMERICAN     DRAWING-BOOK  : 

npon  which  Mr.  CHAPMAN  has  been  for  years  engaged;  and  it  is  now 
produced,  without  regard  to  expense,  in  all  fts  details,  and  published  at 
a  price  to  place  it  within  the  means  of  every  one. 

The  Work  will  be  published  in  large  quarto  form,  put  ap  in  substan 
tial  covers,  and  issued  as  rapidly  as  the  careful  execution  of  the  numer 
ous  engravings,  and  the  mechanical  perfection  of  the  whole,  will  allow 

ESP  Any  one  PART  may  be  had  separately 


Price  5O  Cents  each.  Part. 

^  The  DRAWING  COPY-BOOKS,  intended  aa  auxiliary 
to  the  Work,  in  assisting  Teachers  to  carry  out  the  system  of  instruction, 
especially  in  the  Primary  and  Elementary  parts,  form  a  new  and  valu 
able  addition  to  the  means  of  instruction.  They  will  be  sold  at  a  cost 
little  beyond  that  of  ordinary  blank-books. 


NARRATIVES 

OF 

SORCERY   AND    MAGIC; 

FROM  THE  MOST  AUTHENTIC  SOURCES, 

BY  THOMAS  WRIGHT,  A.  M.,  F.  R.  A. 

In  One  Volume,  12mo.,  Cloth — PRICE  $1.25. 


NOTICES  OF  THE  PRESS. 

"  This  is  one  of  the  pleasantest  books  about  witchcraft  that  we  ever  read ; 
and  Mr.  Wright  tells  his  stories  and  conveys  his  information  with  so  much 
spirit  and  good  sense  that  we  are  sorry  he  has  confined  himself  to  only  one 
department  of  a  subject  which  he  is  very  well  able  to  treat  as  a  whole. 
Mr.  Wright  has  rewritten  the  criminal  annals  of  witchcraft  in  a  style  per 
fectly  free  from  any  important  faults ;  and  he  has  illustrated  his  narrative 
by  rich  collateral  facts  as  could  be  acquired  only  by  long  familiarity  with  a 
peculiar  and  extensive  branch  of  antiquarian  learning.  We  do  not  see 
then  that  the  fortunes  of  witchcraft  have  aught  to  hope  from  any  narrator 
who  may  attempt  to  supersede  him." — Athenaeum. 

"  This  is  a  very  curious  and  highly  interesting  book.  It  contains  a  series 
of  popular  stories  of  sorcery  and  magic  (the  first  chiefly)  and  their  victims, 
from  the  period  of  the  middle  ages  down  to  that  of  the  last  executions  for 
witchcraft  in  England  and  America.  Mr.  Wright  tells  these  stories  admi 
rably  ;  and  without  marring  their  effect  as  illustrations  of  the  respective 
^phases  of  corrupt  or  imperfect  civilization  to  which  they  were  incident,  his 
clear  comments  point  the  truth  or  philosophy  of  the  individual  case  indepen 
dent  of  its  subjection  to  general  causes  or  influences.  The  range  of  infor 
mation  in  the  book  is  extraordinarily  wide,  and  it  is  popularly  set  forth 
throughout,  without  a  touch  of  pedantry  or  a  dull  page." — Examiner. 

"  From  this  wide  field  Mr.  Wright  has  selected  two  parts  for  illustration 
viz.,  {.orcery  and  magic ;  and  must  have  devoted  much  reading  and  research 
to  produce  so  comprehensive  a  view  of  them,  not  only  in  England  and 
Scotland,  but  in  France,  Spain,  Italy,  Germany,  Sweden,  and  New 
England." — Literary  Gazette. 


JUST  PUBLISHED, 

THE  LADIES  OF  THE  COVENANT, 

MEMOIRS    OF 

DISTINGUISHED  SCOTTISH  FEMALE  CHARACTERS, 

Embracing  the  Period  of  the  Covenant  and  the  Persecution. 

Br  THE  REV.  JAMES  ANDERSON. 
In  One  Volume,  IZmo.,  cloth,  PRICE  $1.25 — extra  gilt,  gilt  edges  $1.75. 


OPINIONS    OF    THE    PRESS. 

"  It  is  written  with  great  spirit  and  a  hearty  sympathy,  and  abounds  in  incidents  of 
more  than  a  romantic  interest,  while  the  type  of  piety  it  discloses  is  the  noblest  and 
most  elevated." — N.  Y.  Evangelist. 

"  Seldom  has  there  been  a  more  interesting  volume  than  this  in  our  hands.  Stories 
of  Scottish  suffering  for  the  faith  have  always  thrilled  us  ;  but  here  we  have  the  me 
moirs  of  distinguished  female  characters,  embracing  the  period  of  the  Covenant  and  the 
Persecution,  with  such  tales  of  heroism,  devotion,  trials,  triumphs,  or  deaths,  as  rouse 
subdue,  and  deeply  move  the  heart  of  the  reader." — N.  Y.  Observer. 

"  Many  a  mother  in  Israel  will  have  her  faith  strengthened,  and  her  zeal  awakened, 
and  her  courage  animated  afresh  by  the  example  set  before  her— by  the  cloud  of  wit 
nesses  of  her  own  sex,  who  esteemed  everything — wealth,  honor,  pleasure,  ease,  and 
life  itself — vastly  inferior  to  the  grace  of  the  Gospel ;  and  who  freely  offered  themselves 
and  all  that  they  had,  to  the  sovereign  disposal  of  Him  who  had  called  them  with  an 
holy  calling;  according  to  his  purpose  and  grace."—  Richmond,  (Va.)  Watchman  and 
Observer. 

•'The  Scotch  will  read  this  book  because  it  commemorates  their  noble  countrywo 
men  ;  Presbyterians  will  like  it,  because  it  records  the  endurance  and  triumphs  of  their 
faith  ;  and  the  ladies  will  read  it,  as  an  interesting  memorial  of  what  their  sex  has  done 
in  trying  times  for  truth  and  liberty." — Cincinnati  Central  Christian  Herald. 

"  It  is  a  record  which,  while  it  confers  honor  on  the  sex,  will  elevate  the  heart,  and 
strengthen  it  to  the  better  performance  of  every  duty." — Richmond  (Va.)  Religious 
Herald. 

"The  Descendants  of  these  saints  are  among  us,  in  this  Pilgrim  land,  and  we  earn 
estly  commend  this  book  to  their  perusal." — Plymoth  Old  Colony  Memorial. 

"There  are  pictures  of  endurance,  trust,  and  devotion,  in  this  volume  of  illustriou* 
Buffering,  which  are  worthy  of  a  royal  setting." — Ontario  Repository. 

"  They  abound  with  incidents  and  anecdotes  illustrative  of  the  times  and  we  need 
scarcely  say  are  deeply  interesting  to  all  who  take  an  interest  in  the  progress  of  Chris 
tianity."—  Boston  Journal. 

"Mr.  Anderson  has  tueated  his  subject  ably  ,  and  has  set  forth  in  strong  light  the  en 
during  faith  and  courage  of  the  wives  and  daughters  of  the  Covenanters." — N.  Y.  Albion 

•'It  is  a  book  of  great  attractiveness,  having  not  only  the  freshness  of  novelty  but 
every  element  of  historical  interest — Courier  and  Enquirer. 

"  The  author  is  a  clergyman  of  the  Scottish  kirk,  and  has  executed  his  undertaking 
with  that  spirit  and  fulness  which  might  be  expected  from  one  enjoying  the  best  advan 
tages  for  the  discovery  of  obscure  points  in  the  history  of  Scotland,  and  the  warmes* 
sympathy  with  the  heroines  of  his  own  creed." — Commercial  Advertiser. 


JTTST    PUBLISHED, 

LAYS  OF  THE  SCOTTISH  CAVALIERS, 

BY  WILLIAM  E.  AYTOUN", 

PHOFESSOR   OF  LITERATURE  AND  BELLES  LETTRES  IN  THE  UNIVERSITY  OF   EDINBURGH, 
AND  EDITOR  OF  BLACKWOOD's  MAGAZINE. 

One  Volume,  I2mo.,  Cloth — PRICE  $1. 

"  These  strains  belong  to  stirring  and  pathetic  events,  and  until  poetic  descriptions 
of  them  shall  be  disregarded,  we  think  Mr.  Aytoun's  productions  well  calculated  to 
maintain  a  favorite  place  in  public  estimation." — Literary  Gazette. 

'•  The  ballads  in  question  are  strongly  tinged  by  deep  national  feeling,  and  remind  the 
reader  of  Macaulay's  '  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome ;'  and,  from  the  more  picturesque  nature 
of  the  subject,  are,  perhaps,  even  still  more  highly  colored.  '  Edinburgh  after  Flod- 
den,'  '  the  Death  of  Montrose,'  and  '  the  Battle  of  Kiliecranke,'  are  strains  which  Scotch 
men  will  not  willingly  let  die." — Men  of  the  Time  in  1852. 

"  Choosing  from  the  ample  range  of  Scottish  history,  occasions  which  are  near  and 
dear  to  the  popular  sympathy  of  his  country,  Mr  A^rtoun,  confident  of  the  force  of 
strong  convictions  and  a  direct  appeal  to  the  elementary  emotions  of  the  human  heart, 
has  presented  us  eight  noble  lays — clear  in  feeling,  simple  and  direct  in  expression, 
and  happily  varied  and  variable  in  measure,  which  will,  we  are  confident,  outlive  many, 
if  not  all,  of  his  more  pretentious  and  ornamented  contemporaries." — Literary  World. 


ALSO, 

THE  BOOK  OF  BALLADS/  ." 

EDITED    BY 

BON  GAULTIER. 
One  Volume,  12mo.,  Cloth — PKICE  Y5  cts. 

-"Bon  Gaultier  himself,  his  wit,  satire,  and  versification,  remained  a  'Yarrow  un- 
visited.'  The  opuscula  of  that  humorous  writer,  somehow  marvellously  escaping  the 
prehensile  fingers  of  our  publishers,  were  yet  unknown  to  American  readers  ;  though 
an  occasional  "whiff"  and  stray  aroma  of  the  choice  volume  had  now  and  then  transpired 
through  the  columns  of  a  magazine  or  newspaper. 

"  Bon  Gaultier's  Book  of  Ballads  is  eimply  the  wittiest  and  best  thing  of  the  kind  since 
the  Rejected  Addresses.  Its  parodies  of  Lockhart  (in  the  Spanish  Ballads),  of  Tenny 
son  (his  lovely  sing-song  puerilities),  of  Maceulay  (the  sounding  Roman  strain),  of 
Moses  (the  '  puff  poetical'),  are,  with  a  dozen  others,  in  various  ways,  any  of  them 
equal  to  the  famous  Crabbe,  and  Scott,  ami  Coleridge  of  the  re-ascending  Drury  Lane." 
Literary  World. 


IN    PRESS, 


Jffanon    Lescaut. 

BY 

THE  ABBE  PREVOST. 


tontiful,  unit  Mqirc  itfnrlt. 

« 

JUST    COMPLKTED, 

EPISODES  OF  INSECT  LIFE, 

BY  ACHETA  DOMESTICA. 

IN  THREE  SERIES,  BEAUTIFULLY  ILLUSTRATED, 

I.   INSECTS    OF   SPKING. 
II.   INSECTS   OF   SUMMER. 
III.   INSECTS   OF   WINTER. 
Each  Volume  complete  in  Itself— Price  $2.00. 
The  same,  elegantly  colored  after  Nature,  making  a 
superb  Gift  Book  for  the  Holydays. 

PBICE  $4.00  per  Volume. 


OPINIONS    OF    THE    PRESS. 

"  These  volumes  are  highly  creditable  to  American  taste  in  every  department  of  book- 
making  ; — it  is  impossible  to  give  an  idea  of  the  perfection  of  workmanship  and  the  ad 
mirable  keeping  of  parts  they  exhibit.  In  order  to  appreciate  this,  one  must  see  the 
volume^,  and  having  seen  them,  he  will  at  once  transfer  them  to  his  own  table,  for  the 
instruction  and  amusement  of  old  and  young." — N.  Y.  Observer. 

"  Moths,  clow-worms,  lady-birds,  May-flies,  bees,  and  a  variety  of  other  inhabitants  of 
the  insect  world,  are  descanted  upon  in  a  pleasing  style,  combining  scientific  information 
with  romance,  in  a  manner  peculiarly  attractive." — Commercial  Advertiser. 

"  The  style  is  the  farthest  possible  remove  from  pedantry  and  dullness,  every  page 
teems  with  delightful  matter,  and  the  whole  is  thoroughly  furnished  with  grace  and 
beauty,  as  well  as  truth.  One  giving  himself  over  to  its  fascinating  charms,  might  read 
ily  believe  himself  fast  on  to  the  borders,  if  not  in  the  very  midst  of  fairy  land."— Roches 
ter  Daily  Democrat. 

"  We  have  in  this  work  deep  philosophy  and  an  endless  flow  of  humor,  and  lessons 
Bet  before  us,  drawn  from  ants,  beetles,  and  butterflies,  which  we  might  do  well  to  pon 
der.  We  cnn  think  of  nothing  more  calculated  to  delight  the  passing  hour  than  the 
beautiful  delineations  we  find  in  these  three  volumes." — Christian  Intelligencer. 

"  The  whole  insect  world  is  represented  in  these  volumes,  many  of  them  disguised  so 
as  to  present  what  politicians  would  call  a  compromise  between  a  human  and  an  insect 
We  cordially  commend  these  volumes  to  the  attention  of  our  readers."—  Boston  Museum. 

"A  book  elegant  enough  for  the  centre  table,  witty  enough  for  after  dinner,  and  wise 
enough  for  the  study  and  the  school-room.  One  of  the  beautiful  lessons  of  this  work  is 
the  kindly  view  it  takes  of  nature.  Nothing  is  made  in  vain,  not  only,  but  nothing  is 
made  ugly  or  repulsive.  A  charm  is  thrown  around  every  object,  and  life  suffused 
through  all,  suggestive  of  the  Creator's  goodness  and  wisdom." — N.  Y.  Evangelist. 

"  What  a  monument  is  here  raised  to  that  wonderful,  tiny  race,  so  often  disregardedi 
but  which  nevertheless  amply  repays  the  care  we  may  bestow  in  studying  their  pecu 
liarities.  The  interest  of  the  reader  of  these  volumes  is  well  sustained  by  the  humor 
and  sprightliness  of  the  writer." — Zion's  Herald. 

"  It  is  a  beautiful  specimen  of  book-making.  The  character  of  the  contents  may  be 
already  known  to  our  readers  from  the  long  and  very  favorable  attention- they  have  re 
ceived  from  the  English  reviewers.  The  illustrations  are  at  once  grotesque  and  signifi 
cant." — Boston  Post. 

•'  The  book  is  one  of  especial  beauty  and  utility,  and  we  heartily  thank  the  publisher 
for  his  enterprise  in  putting  it  within  the  rench  of  American  readers.  It  is  worthy  of  a 
place  in  every  family  library.  Elegantly  illustrated  and  humorously  yet  chastely  writ 
ten,  it  U  calculated  to  amuse  aad  instruct  all  classes  of  readers,"— Com.  Advertiser. 


IN    PRESS, 

PHILOSOPHERS  AND  ACTRESSES, 

BT 

AKSENE   HOUSSAYE. 

With  Beautifully-engraved  Portraits  of  Voltaire  and  Made,  de  Parabere, 
CONTENTS. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  SCARRON. 

VOLTAIRE. 

VOLTAIRE  AND  MLLE.  DE~LIVRY. 

ASPASIA(THE  REPUBLIC  OF  PLATO). 

MADEMOISELLE  GAUSSIN. 

CALLOT.  LA  TOUR. 

RAOUL  AND  GABRIELLE. 

MADEMOISELLE  DE  MARIVAUX. 

THE  MARCHIONESS'  CAPRICES. 

THE  MISTRESS  OF  CORNILLE  SCHUT 

CHAMFORT. 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE. 

THE  DEATH  OF  ANDRE  CHEN1ER. 

THE  MARQUIS  DE  ST.  AULAIRE. 

COLLE. 

THE  DAUGHTER  OF  SEDAINE. 

PRUDHON. 

BLANGINI 

AN  UNKNOWN  SCULPTOR. 

VANDYKE. 

SAPPHO. 

A  LOST  POET. 


HANDS  FILLED  WITH  ROSES,  FILLED  WITH  GOLD,  FILLED  WITH  BLOOD. 

THE  HUNDRED  AND  ONE  PICTURES  OF  TARDIF,  FRIEND  OF  GILLOT. 

THREE  PAGES  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  MADAME  DE  PARABERE. 

DIALOGUES  OF  THE  DEAD  UPON  THE  LIVING. 

"  THE  title  of  Arse'ne  Houssaye's  volume  is  not  to  be  literally  understood* 
There  is  more  in  it  than  falls  at  first  upon  the  tympanum  of  our  intelligence.  The 
ecene  and  action  of  the  book  are  by  no  means  restricted  to  academic  groves  and 
theatrical  green-rooms.  Its  author  allows  himself  greater  latitude.  Adopting  a 
trite  motto,  he  declares  the  world  a  stage.  His  philosophers  and  actresses  com 
prise  a  multitude  of  classes  and  characters;  he  finds  them  everywhere.  Artists 
and  thinkers,  women  of  fashion  and  frequenters  of  courts,  the  lover  of  science 
and  the  favored  of  wit  and  beauty — the  majority  of  all  these,  according  to  his 
fantastical  preface,  are  philosophers  and  actresses.  Only  on  the  stage  and  at  the 
Sorbonne,  he  maliciously  remarks,  few  actresses  and  philosophers  are  to  be  found. 

"  To  a  good  book  a  title  is  a  matter  of  minor  moment.  It  was  doubtless,  diffi 
cult  to  find  one  exactly  appropriate  to  a  volume  so  desultory  and  varied  as  that 
of  Houssaye.  In  the  one  selected  he  has  studied  antithetical  effect,  as  his  coun 
trymen  are  prone  to  do  ;  but  we  are  not  disposed  to  quarrel  with  his  choice,  which 
was  perhaps  as  good  as  could  be  made.  Philosophers  certainly  figure  in  his  pages 
—  often  in  pursuits  and  situations  in  which  few  would  expect  to  find  them;  ac 
tresses,  too,  are  there — actresses  as  they  were  in  France  a  century  ago,  rivalling, 
in  fashion,  luxury,  and  elegance,  the  highest  ladies  of  the  court,  who,  on  their 
part,  often  vied  with  them  in  dissipation  and  extravagance.  But  Houssnye  is 
a  versatile  and  excursive  genius,  loving  change  of  subject,  scene,  and  century; 
and  he  skips  gayly  down  the  stream  of  time,  from  the  days  of  Plato  and  Aspasia 
to  our  own,  pausing  here  and  there,  us  the  fancy  takes  bin:,  to  cull  a  flower,  point 
a  moral,  or  tell  a  tale." — Blackwood's  Magazine. 


JUST     PUBLISHED, 

CHARACTERS  IN  THE  GOSPEL 

ILLUSTRATING 

PHASES  OF  CHARACTER  AT  THE  PRESENT  DAY, 
Bv  REV.  E.  H.  CHAPIN. 

One  Volume,  12w0.,  Cloth — PRICE  50  cts. 

SUBJECTS. 

I.  John  the  Baptist ;  the  Kefonner. 
n.  Herod;  the  Sensualist. 
HI.  Thomas;  the  Skeptic. 
IV.  Pilate ;  the  Man  of  the  World. 
V.  Nicoiemus;  the  Seeker  after  Religion. 
VI.  The  Sisters  of  Bethany. 


Christianity." — Christian  Enquirer 


"Mr.  Chapin  is  a  graphic  painter.    He  writes  in  a  forcible,  bold,  and  fearless  man- 
r:  and  while  we  can  not  accord  with  nil  his  views,  many  suggestive  thoughts  and 


:  »nu  wniie  we  can  noi  accora  wun  r.u  nis  views,  many  su<j<resrive  thoughts  ar 
'ul  reflections  may  be  derived  from  its  pages." — Religious  Herald  (Richmond,  Va.) 


have  bern  delivered  by  Mr.  Chapin  from  the  pulpit,  and  all  who 


abound   with  strong,  pungent  tru 
through." — Olive  Branch  (Boston.) 


A  NEIV  AXl)  POPULAR  VOLUME. 

TALES  AND  TRADITIONS 

OF 

HUNGARY. 

BY  THERESA  PULSZKY. 
With  a  Portrait  of  the  Author. 

In  One  Volume,  Cloth-Price,  $1  25. 

THE  above  contains,  in  addition  to  the  English  publication,  a  NEW  PREFACE,  and 
TALES,  now  first  printed  from  the  manuscript  of  the  Author,  .who  has  a  direct  interest  in 
the  publication. 

CONTENTS. 


1.  The  Baron's  Daughter. 

2.  The  Castle  of  Zipsen. 

3.  Yanoshik,  the  Robber. 

4.  The  Free  Shot. 

5.  The  Golden  Cross  of  Korosfo. 

6.  The  Guardians. 

7.  The  Love  of  the  Angels. 

8.  The  Maid  and  the  Genii 

9.  Ashmodai,  the  Lame  Demon. 
10.  The  Nun  of  Rauchenbach. 


11.  The  Cloister  of'Manastir. 

12.  Pan  Twardoweky. 

13.  The  Poor  Tartar. 

14.  The  Maidens'  Castle. 

15.  The  Hair  of  the  Orphan  Girl. 

16.  The  Rocks  of  Lipnik. 

17.  Jack,  the  Horse-Dealer. 

18.  Klingsohr  of  Hungary. 
19   Yanoah,  the  Hero. 

20.  The  Hungarian  Outlaws. 


21.  Tradition  of  the  Hungarian  Race. 
NOTICES   OF  THE    ENGLISH   PRESS. 

'•  The  old  fairy  lore  of  the  world,  though  as  familiar  to  us  as  our  own  names,  never 
loses  its  charm,  if  it  only  be  told  to  new  tunes — if  Cinderella's  godmother  presents  herself 
to  the  over-worked  and  ill-used  child  in  a  national  costume — if  we  find  '  Ogier  the  DanJ 
sitting,  waiting  for  the  time  when  he  is  to  arise  and  deliver  the  world,  in  some  fresh  sub- 


op 
era.  We  are  as  glad  to  dream  of  finding  the  lost '  Golden  Cross  of  Korosfo'  as  if  we  had 
not  been  already  Bet  a-yearnhig  by  Moore  for 

'The  round  towers  of  other  days," 

buried  deep  in  the  bosom  of  Lough  Neagh.  But,  in  addition  to  these  universal  stories-  -r 
old  as  time,  and  precious  as  belief— Madame  Pulszky  has  a  special  budget  of  her  own. 
The  legend  of '  The  Castle  of  Zipsen'  is  told  with  racy  humor.  Whimsically  absurd,  too, 
are  the  matrimonial  difficulties  of  Pan  and  Panna  Twardowsky,  as  here  related ;  while 
the  fate  of  Vendelin  Drageth  reveals  how  '  the  wild  huntsman'  may  be  varied,  so  as  to 
give  that  fine  old  legend  a  more  orthodox  and  edifying  close  than  the  original  version 
possesses.  Most  interesting  of  all  are  '  The  Hungarian  Outlaws.' " — London  Athenaeum. 

"  This  work  claims  more  attention  than  is  ordinarily  given  to  books  of  its  class.  Such 
is  the  fluency  and  correctness — nay,  even  the  nicety  and  felicity  of  style — with  which 
Miniamr  Pulszky  writes  the  English  language,  that  merely  in  this  respect  the  tales  here 
collected  form  a  curious  study.  But  they  contain  also  highly  suggestive  illustrations  of 
national  literature  and  character.  To  not  a  few  of  the  '  traditions'  of  Hungary  a  living 
force  and  significance  are  still  imparted  by  the  practices  as  well  as  the  belief  of  her  peas 
antry  and  people,  and  none  were  better  qualified  than  the  author  of  this  book  to  give  fa 
miliar  and  pointed  expression  to  these  national  traits The  pride  and  power  of  the 

landed  noble,  in  contrast  with  the  more  gaudy  but  less  real  power  of  the  court — the  con 
tinual  struggle  of  the  classes  in  immediate  proximity  with  the  noble — and  (that  fancy  so 
[Hjculiar  to  rude  ages  in  every  country)  the  calling  in  of  the  common  robber  to  redress 
the  unequal  social  balance — are  among  the  prominent  subjects  of  the  traditions  related  by 
Madame  Pulszky  with  much  beauty  and  vivacity.  The  tale  or  tradition  which  holds  a 
middle  place  between  these  and  the  purely  fantastic,  is  that  which  describes-  the  home- 
life  of  the  peasant,  and,  at  the  same  time,  satisfies  the  love  of  distant  adventure,  which  he 
cultivates  as  he  follows  his  plough." — London  Examiner. 

"  Freshness  of  subject  is  invaluable  in  literature — Hungary  is  still  fresh  ground.  It  has 
teen  trodden,  but  it  is  not  yet  a  common  highway.  The  tales  and  legends  are  very  vari 
ous,  from  the  mere  traditional  anecdote  to  the  regular  legend,  and  they  have  the  sort  of 
Interest  which  all  national  traditions  excite." — London  Leader. 


MEN  AND  WOMEN 

OF  THE 

EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY. 

BY    ARSENE    HOUSSAYE. 

With  Beautifully-Engraved  Portraits  of  Louis  XV.  and  Made,  de  Pompadour, 
In  Two  Volumes,  12/no.,  Cloth  —  PRICE  $2.50. 


CO  NTE  NTS, 


DUFRESNY. 

FONTENELLE 

MARIVAUX. 

PIRON. 

THE  ABBE  PREVOST. 

GENTIL-BERNARD. 

FLORIAN. 

BOUFFLERS. 

DIDEROT. 

GRETRY. 

RIVEROL. 


LOUIS  XV. 

GREUZE. 

BOUCHER. 

THE  VANLOOS. 

LANTARA. 

WATTE  AU. 

LA  MOTTE. 

DEHLE. 

ABBE  TRUBLET. 

BUFFON. 

DORAT. 


CARDINAL  DE  BERNIS. 

CREBILLON  THE  GAY. 

MARIE  ANTOINETTE. 

MADE    DE  POMPADOUR. 

VADE. 

MLLE    CAMARGO. 

MLLE    CLAIRON. 

MAD.  DE  LAPOPELINIERB 

SOPHIE  ARNOULD. 

CREBILLON  THE  TRAGIC. 

MLLE    GUIMARD. 


THREE    PAGES    IN    THE    LIFE    OF    DANCOURT. 
A    PROMENADE    IN    THE    PALAIS-ROYAL. 

LE    CHEVALIER    DE    LA    CLOS. 

"A  series  of  pleasantly  desultory  papers — neither  history,  biography* 
criticism,  nor  romance,  but  compounded  of  all  four:  always  lively  and 
graceful,  and  often  sparkling  with  esprit,  that  subtle  essence  which  may  be 
BO  much  belter  illustrated  than  defined.  M.  Houssaye's  aim  in  these  sketch 
es —  for  evidently  he  had  an  aim  beyond  the  one  he  alleges  of  pastime  for 
his  leisure  hours  —  seems  to  have  been  to  discourse  of  persons  rather  cele 
brated  than  known,  whose  names  and  works  are  familiar  to  all,  but  with 
whose  characters  and  histories  few  are  much  acquainted.  To  the  mass  of 
readers,  his  book  will  have  the  charm  of  freshness ;  the  student  and  the 
man  of  letters,  who  have  already  drunk  at  the  springs  whence  M.  Houssaye 
has  derived  his  inspiration  and  materials,  will  pardon  any  lack  of  novelty 
for  the  sake  of  the  spirit  and  originality  of  the  treatment." — BLACKWOOD. 

ITS  PRESS, 

PHILOSOPHERS  AND  ACTRESSES, 

BY  THE  SAME   AUTHOR. 


MEN  AND  WOMEN 

OF  THE 

EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY. 

BY    ARSENE    HOUSSAYE. 

With  Beautifully-Engraved  Portraits  of  Louis  XV.  and  Made,  de  Pompadour, 
In  Two  Volumes,  \2rno.,  Cloth  —  PRICE  $2.50. 


CONTE  NTS, 


DUFRESNY. 
FONTENELLE 
MARIVAUX. 
PIRON. 


LOUIS  XV. 
GREUZE. 
BOUCHER. 
THE  VANLOOS. 


THE  ABBE  PREVOST.  LANTARA. 

GENTIL-BERNARD.  WATTEAU. 

FLORIAN.  LA  MOTTE. 

BOUFFLERS.  DEHLE. 

DIDEROT.  ABBE  TRUBLET. 

GRETRY.  BUFFON. 

RIVEROL.  DORAT. 

THREE    PAGES    IN    THE    LIFE 


CARDINAL  DE  BERNIS. 
CREBILLON  THE  GAY. 
MARIE  ANTOINETTE. 
MADE    DE  POMPADOUR. 
VADE. 

MLLE    CAMARGO. 
MLLE    CLAIRON. 
MAD.  DE  LAPOPELINIERE 
SOPHIE  ARNOULD. 
CREBILLON  THE  TRAGIC. 
MLLE   GUIMARD. 
OF    DANCOURT. 


A    PROMENADE    IN    THE    PALAIS-ROYAL. 

LE    CHEVALIER    DE    LA    CLOS. 

"  A  series  of  pleasantly  desultory  papers  —  neither  history,  biography* 
criticism,  nor  romance,  but  compounded  of  all  four:  always  lively  and 
graceful,  and  often  sparkling  with  esprit,  that  subtle  essence  which  may  be 
so  much  better  illustrated  than  defined.  M.  Houssaye's  aim  in  these  sketch 
es —  for  eviden-tly  he  had  an  aim  beyond  the  one  he  alleges  of  pastime  for 
his  leisure  hours  —  seems  to  have  been  to  discourse  of  persons  rather  cele 
brated  than  known,  whose  names  and  works  are  familiar  to  all,  but  with 
whose  characters  and  histories  few  are  much  acquainted.  To  the  mass  of 
readers,  his  book  will  have  the  charm  of  freshness;  the  student  and  the 
man  of  letters,  who  have  already  drunk  at  the  springs  whence  M.  Houssaye 
has  derived  his  inspiration  and  materials,  will  pardon  any  lack  of  novelty 
for  the  sake  of  the  spirit  and  originality  of  the  treatment." — BLACKWOOD. 


PHILOSOPHERS  AND  ACTRESSES, 

BY  THE   SAME   AUTHOR. 


